


Slow Dancing In A Burning Room

by there_must_be_a_lock



Category: Panic! at the Disco
Genre: Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Breakup, Drug Use, M/M, Panic! at the Disco - Freeform, Smut, patd - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-13
Updated: 2017-12-13
Packaged: 2019-02-14 09:29:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 40,998
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13004835
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/there_must_be_a_lock/pseuds/there_must_be_a_lock
Summary: Sometimes things fall apart, and sometimes you can't put them back together.





	1. (1/5)

**Author's Note:**

> Transferred over from my old Livejournal account, livinglifeloud. Don't yell at me for plagiarizing myself, or whatever. Just don't yell at me in general. 
> 
> No disrespect meant to Ryan Ross, who is a precious cupcake of a human; this is just my interpretation of how shit could've gone.

"Ryan got lost," Spencer says as he flops down next to Brendon on the couch.   
  
Brendon stares at him in disbelief. "He's been here before."   
  
"He got lost anyway," Spencer smirks.   
  
"I would say that's surprising, but we're talking about the dude who made his pipes explode." They roll their eyes simultaneously before turning back to the TV.  
  
"Oh my god, stop channel surfing, you have the worst ADD I've ever- give it to me." Spencer grabs at Brendon's wrist and Brendon switches the remote to the other hand, sticking his tongue out. Spencer scowls and scrambles over so he can flop mostly on top of Brendon to make grabby hands at the remote. Brendon tickles him viciously.   
  
"Hah," he crows, when Spencer curls away, laughing.   
  
"Nope," Spencer says, and then, before Brendon can move, Spencer's straddling him easily, holding both of Brendon's wrists in one hand to pluck away the remote.   
  
"Fuck you," Brendon says.   
  
"Ooh, Love Actually."   
  
"You're such a girl - oh wait, this is my favorite scene."   
  
"Yeah,  _I'm_  the girl," Spencer mutters. Brendon sticks his tongue out and jumps up to dance with Hugh Grant, singing along until Bogart runs out of the kitchen to yap around his ankles. Brendon laughs and sprawls back across the couch, this time with his head in Spencer's lap.  
  
After a few minutes, Brendon wonders aloud, "Should we eat? How long is Ryan gonna be?"   
  
"He said he'd probably be like half an hour late-" Spencer starts.   
  
"-So he'll be at least an hour, and we should have dinner without him," Brendon concludes. "I'll go order pizza."   
  
"Olives and-"   
  
"Mushrooms, I know."   
  
He waits a few minutes, though, relaxing into Spencer's hand as it scratches gently above his ear. It's been nice, having Spencer around for the past week. Shane is a good roommate and an awesome friend, but there's always been something about the way he and Spencer just  _fit,_  effortless and comfortable.   
  
"Go, ass, I'm hungry," Spencer says eventually, and he shoves at Brendon until he falls off the couch.   
  
"Fuck you," Brendon squawks, dusting himself off, but he blows a showy kiss over his shoulder as he heads for the phone.   
  
  


. . .

  
  
  
"Let me guess, one of these is completely full of hats," Spencer laughs, bringing one of Ryan's many suitcases into the spare room. Ryan scowls.   
  
"What the fuck, Spence, help," Brendon grumbles. Air is hissing out of the mattress just as fast as he pumps it in.   
  
"Fucktard, you have to screw the cap in."   
  
"I'll screw your mom's cap in," Brendon smirks. "Okay, Ryan, this is your room, I'm down the hall, Spencer's next door. Shane basically has the upstairs but he's pretty much away for the next couple weeks, he's filming. Bathroom is across the hall, just be careful with the faucets." Spencer snorts.   
  
"It was barely even my fault," Ryan says defensively. "There was a malfunction in one of the pipes."   
  
"I'll take your word for it. We were thinking we could all go out? Celebrate your arrival, or whatever."   
  
Ryan shrugs. "Sure. Just let me change?"   
  
It's a club they've been to a few times before, visiting Pete or just passing through. Brendon's still getting used to the way nobody gives him a second glance in LA. It's nice, everybody else being more famous than he is.   
  
"Oh, good song," Spencer says approvingly as they step inside.   
  
"I'm gonna go get us drinks," Ryan says. Brendon smiles to himself as Ryan slips out of sight. Some things'll never change; Ryan has never once danced sober in all the time Brendon's known him.   
  
It is a good song, some remix of "Under Pressure." Brendon coaxes Spencer into singing along with him as they dance. Brendon can see a girl eyeing him, but he ignores her, letting his hips swing, closing his eyes against the flashing lights. It's been a while since he went out. He and Spencer have just as good a time at home with the dogs, to be honest, but he does like dancing.  
  
It takes Ryan a couple songs to come over with drinks, and when he does, he also has a girl. Brendon does a double take. She could be Keltie's younger, stupider, prettier sister. Ryan hands over the drinks and wraps an arm around her waist.   
  
"We're, uh, going to the bathroom," Ryan says pointedly. "Want to come?"   
  
"Oh, you mean-" Brendon starts. "Oh. Uh. No thanks, not tonight." Spencer does his best bitchface.   
  
"Okay," Ryan shrugs.   
  
"Looks like it's just you and me," the girl croons up at Ryan as they walk away.   
  
Brendon doubles over laughing as soon as they're out of earshot, but Spencer's not laughing with him. He looks stormy.   
  
"It's his first night back, he's supposed to be hanging out with us."   
  
"Yeah, but you don't think that's even a little hilarious?" Brendon asks. "I mean, I didn't think there was anyone in California with a forehead like Keltie, and yet Ryan manages to find someone within like five minutes. That's impressive."   
  
"He's so bad at rebounding," Spencer says disgustedly, but he's fighting back a smile. "You're supposed to pick someone who's nothing like the last girl."   
  
Brendon rolls his eyes. "Do you need a rebound, Spencer Smith? How about her?" He points at a tiny platinum blonde nearby.   
  
Some strange expression flickers over Spencer's face, more confused than anything. He just shakes his head. "C'mon, let's dance."   
  
Brendon downs the rest of his drink and pulls Spencer close, turning around so they're back-to-front. Spencer's laugh rumbles in his ear and he leans away to set his drink on a table. Brendon shoots him a goofy grin over his shoulder and rolls his hips shamelessly, grinding back against Spencer with everything he's got. He feels Spencer's grip tighten.   
  
It's a great DJ and Brendon, as always, gets lost in the music. Spencer matches Brendon's rhythm easily. It's hot and loud and the air is thick with sweat, and Brendon remembers why he likes going out, the pulse of the music in his chest and the press of someone else against him, the guys and girls that eye him up and down. He could pick anyone, but he doesn't want to bother tonight. Spencer splays a hand over his abs and he shivers, almost forgetting who he's with, shutting his eyes at the heat that flashes through his stomach. He gives a mental shrug and turns around to face Spencer, curling one hand around the back of Spencer's neck. Spencer looks like he's about to protest and Brendon wonders why for a moment, until he grinds up and feels Spencer hard against his thigh.   
  
They both freeze.   
  
"Sorry," Spencer says sheepishly. "You're a good dancer?"   
  
"No worries," Brendon grins. "I know I am. C'mon, let's get something to drink, I'm thirsty." His heart is thumping as they head for the bar.   
  
Brendon gets another Jack and Coke and they slide into a booth. He scans the crowd, but there's no sign of Ryan. He slumps against Spencer's side and Spencer, after a moment of hesitation, wraps an arm around Brendon's shoulder.   
  
"Being out kinda makes me remember why I rarely go out," Spencer mumbles into Brendon's hair.   
  
"Hmm?"   
  
"I mean, it's fun when you're with the right friends, but. Look at her," Spencer says derisively, pointing out a girl wearing what was probably meant as a shirt, but with heels and nothing underneath. "Or her." A girl in a leopard-print dress, breasts spilling over the top.   
  
"Him," Brendon laughs, and it's a Ryan lookalike in a paisley shirt, with carefully flatironed hair.   
  
"Fucking pretty people are so boring," Spencer observes.   
  
Brendon wiggles closer. "Welcome to L.A."   
  
"I'm glad I'm here, though," Spencer says softly. Brendon smiles up at him.   
  
They spend a good half hour judging people, pointing out the tackiest outfits and the most obvious plastic surgery, before finishing their drinks and getting up to dance again. Brendon snakes his arms around Spencer's neck and pulls him close, skin buzzing.   
  
He's lost track of time again, but it must be late when he feels a tap on his shoulder.   
  
"Hi," Ryan says smugly. Brendon pulls away.   
  
"Your hair needs some work," Spencer deadpans. Brendon giggles. Ryan's hair is sticking straight up in the back and is combed straight down at the sides, where he very obviously failed at hiding the line of hickeys trailing down his neck.   
  
"Yeah, well," Ryan not-really protests. "Um, we should go."   
  
"Don't you want to say goodbye to Keltie version five?" Brendon needles. Ryan looks angry for a split-second, but then "Keltie version five" is actually there, pressing herself against Ryan's side with a smug smile.   
  
"Hi," she says, in the exact same cat-got-the-cream tone Ryan had used. Brendon can see Spencer's mouth working as he tries not to laugh.   
  
"We were just about to get going," Ryan informs her, pointedly taking her hand and removing it from his waist.   
  
"But I-" she starts.   
  
"Nice to meet you!" Ryan calls over his shoulder, and Brendon and Spencer exchange an exasperated glance before following him to the exit.   
  
"You could at least pretend to be less of a dick," Spencer says waspishly. He gives the valet their parking ticket.   
  
"Why bother?" Ryan mutters. He's prodding at one of the bruises under his ear.   
  
"Keltie had a better ass," Brendon says absently. He's staring up at the sky, trying to catch a glimpse of a star behind the smog, and it takes him a moment to realize that Ryan's staring at him like he's been hit. "What?"  
  
"Nothing," Ryan practically snarls. He flings himself into the backseat. Brendon watches him for a second, puzzled. Spencer huffs out a sigh and something clicks into place.   
  
"I thought you were over her?" he asks. "Spence, you should drive."   
  
"I  _am_  over her." His voice is impossibly flat.   
  
"Sorry. I didn't mean to bring it up," Brendon says awkwardly. He makes an apologetic face at Spencer, who just shrugs and starts the car. It feels like a very long drive home.   
  
Ryan's schooled his expression into something resembling a smile by the time they pull into the driveway. “Thanks for letting me crash, Bren,” he says. “Um. Are we doing anything tomorrow?”   
  
“Not really, unless you want...” Brendon trails off. Spencer shrugs.   
  
“Alex is in town, I might do something with him?”   
  
“Cool.”   
  
“See you in the morning, then. Night.”   
  
  


. . .

  
  
  
_"Was that okay?" Brendon asks nervously. Spencer and Ryan are just gaping at him, wide-eyed, so he tacks on a quick "Sorry."  
  
"No," says Spencer. "That was- that was great."   
  
It's only the fourth practice with him singing, and he still feels painfully uncomfortable being in the spotlight.   
  
"That was-" Ryan starts, but his voice cracks. He clears his throat and flushes, and instead of finishing his sentence, says, "I'm gonna go get something to drink."   
  
Brendon fidgets for a second after he goes, Spencer's gaze on him like a floodlight.   
  
"I need water too," he says feebly, and darts through the door to the kitchen.   
  
Ryan's rummaging through a box of popsicles, smiling slightly as he searches for, Brendon remembers, the watermelon ones. He starts a little when he sees Brendon but offers up the box.   
  
"You- you're really good. Really good," Ryan says. "We- we're gonna be superstars." The confident lilt at the end of the sentence is the best praise Brendon's gotten from him yet, and without thinking, he does what he'd do with any of his brothers, just lunges forward and pulls Ryan into a hug.   
  
He would've expected a little jump of surprise, but not the sharp gasp of unmistakable pain that Ryan lets out when Brendon squeezes him. Ryan goes stock-still in his arms and Brendon lets go and jumps back quickly.   
  
"What's wrong?" he asks nervously.   
  
"Nothing," Ryan says, voice flat.   
  
Puzzled, Brendon asks again, "No, seriously, are you okay?"   
  
"Don't fucking touch me," Ryan snaps out, and it's at that second that Spencer walks into the room. He looks quickly between them, at Ryan hand posed defensively over his own ribs. Brendon feels like he's missed something.   
  
"Okay, Ry?" Spencer asks, in that tone Brendon's noticed is reserved especially for Ryan: protective, slightly reserved, a shade quieter than usual.   
  
"No," Ryan grits out, and he's still glaring at Brendon, venomous and haunted like Brendon hit him.   
  
"Maybe we'll end practice early today," Spencer says softly, eyes still fixed on Ryan's face.   
  
"Yeah," Ryan says, and then he's stalking out of the room without another glance at either of them.   
  
"I'll take you home," Spencer says wearily to Brendon, who's trying valiantly to keep his lower lip from trembling.   
  
"What did I do?" Brendon asks, buckling himself into Spencer's car. Spencer fiddles with the radio for way longer than is actually necessary.   
  
"Do you want to go to the park?" he says finally. Brendon shrugs and nods. It's not like he really wants to go home. They drive in silence, Brendon thinking back to the wild look in Ryan's eyes. His chest hurts, a sort of deep ache. Spencer pulls over by the ice cream truck and buys them both popsicles before Brendon can protest, and he glares when Brendon takes out his wallet.   
  
"Thanks," Brendon says weakly, and they wander over to the swing set. It's going on dusk now and there aren't many kids around, just a few dragging their feet as their parents tug them toward cars.   
  
"Ryan," Spencer says, like he doesn't quite know how to phrase what he's about to say. He takes a bite of his ice cream instead, and winces. "Brain freeze."   
  
Brendon kicks his feet in the sand. "I didn't mean to- to- what did I do?" he stutters.   
  
"Brendon, he- his dad's an alcoholic," Spencer says bluntly. But-  **oh.**  Oh.   
  
"So he-" Brendon starts, but ends up staring down at his shoes some more. He feels sick.   
  
"Yeah," Spencer says softly.   
  
"I didn't-"   
  
"You couldn't have known. He wouldn't have told you," Spencer says firmly. "You didn't do anything wrong. He's- He's like that."   
  
They sit in silence for a while, until Brendon's ice cream is just a cherry-flavored stick and it's almost fully dark.   
  
"We should get you home," Spencer says.   
  
"Thanks for the ice cream," Brendon smiles, and Spencer grins back and twists his swing to bump into Brendon's side.   
  
"Anytime. C'mon, let's go." _   
  
  


. . .

  
  
  
They're cooking breakfast around eleven the next morning when Ryan shuffles into the kitchen. "Coffee," he groans. Brendon grins and points at the pot.   
  
"Spatula?" Brendon asks, and Spencer reaches into the drawer by his knee and hands one over. He steps around Brendon to grab the pan of bacon, shoveling it onto three plates before handing the plates over to Brendon, who adds eggs. Brendon turns around to hand Ryan his plate and finds Ryan clutching his empty mug and staring.   
  
"What?" Spencer says. "Eat, you're a twig. Coffee's right there."   
  
Ryan's lips curl up in the early-morning version of a smile, but he takes his plate obediently.   
  
"You want Arts or Business?" Brendon asks Spencer, shoveling eggs into his mouth.   
  
"Business." Brendon hands it over, along with the ketchup, which Spencer pours liberally over his eggs.   
  
"Okay, first of all, ew, have you started doing that again? I thought Haley'd cured you permanently," Ryan says. Spencer raises an eyebrow and goes back to his paper.   
  
"He's still gross as ever," Brendon comments, sticking his tongue out at Spencer.   
  
"Second, you guys are like a fucking married couple," Ryan says. Brendon and Spencer look at each other and shrug simultaneously.   
  
"We have a routine," Spencer explains. Ryan rolls his eyebrows, but reserves comment. His mouth is doing that funny indecisive thing it does when he can't decide whether to be amused or disapproving, but Brendon chalks that up to lack of caffeine. He ploughs through his eggs and the rest of the newspaper while Ryan sips at his coffee.   
  
“I'm gonna take the dogs for a walk, who's coming?” Brendon asks when he's done. He shoves his dishes in a sink-ward direction and grabs the leashes from their hook. “Ry, does Hobo have a leash?”   
  
“Uh,” Ryan says.   
  
“Too many vests, not enough room in the suitcase?” Spencer says sweetly, not looking up from his paper. Brendon snorts.   
  
“S'okay, I have an extra. Wait, Spence, where's the other one?”   
  
“You left it on the end table by the back door.”   
  
“Right. Okay, coming?”   
  
“I, unlike some people, like to properly chew my food, so no, I'm not done yet.”   
  
“I'll come,” Ryan volunteers. He pushes back his chair and smiles at Brendon.   
  
They head off on Brendon's usual loop around the neighborhood. Ryan is stiff at his side, holding Hobo's leash gingerly like he's afraid to choke her. They pass by joggers and baby carriages, and Ryan looks somehow incongruous. It might be the pointy Italian shoes.   
  
“So how d'you like it?” Brendon says grandly, gesturing at the road.   
  
“It's nice. I, uh- I mean. It's really calm.”   
  
“Weather'll be perfect for surfing any day now,” Brendon says. “There are a few good beaches within a fifteen minute drive. It should start getting pretty warm within the week.” And then he realizes he's doing that thing where he talks too much, talking about the fucking  _weather,_  and Ryan looks entirely disinterested. “I'm- I'm sorry I was a bitch about the girl, dude. I didn't know.”   
  
“Know what?” Ryan says flatly, and his back stiffens.   
  
“That you were still-” Brendon tries, waving around his leash-free hand. “Y'know.”   
  
“I don’t even know what you’re talking about. So, Spencer's been staying here for a while?” His tone could be called casual by anyone who didn't know Ryan.   
  
“Like a week. Haven't you talked to him?” Brendon says awkwardly. He feels like he's balancing on some fine invisible line.   
  
“Not in a bit. I was in New York for a few days with Alex, just kind of busy.”   
  
“Oh. Did you, uh- did you guys do anything fun?   
  
“Went to some clubs. Met up with Agyness and some of her friends. Went out with the band Alex is producing. It was pretty crazy. What about you guys? Found any good spots in L.A. yet?”  
  
Brendon laughs and it comes out almost natural. “Not really. We've mostly stayed in, y'know? We had some friends over for a barbecue a couple days ago, that was fun.”   
  
“I guess we'll just have to explore more,” Ryan says. It sounds...pitying? Brendon scratches at the back of his neck and tries not to let his discomfort show on his face.   
  
“Yeah, I guess so. Should we start home now?”   
  
“Sure.”   
  
Ryan needs a new guitar strap and he's meeting Alex for lunch, so he leaves a few minutes after they get back. He half-heartedly invites Spencer and Brendon to lunch, but they shake their heads in tandem and wave Ryan out the door.   
  
"Let's get really, really stoned," Brendon decides, and throws his arms up in a sort of "what-fucking-ever" gesture.   
  
"Good call."   
  
They decide on the backyard as the best location, leaning against a tree. Brendon lights up the bowl first, holding in the smoke until he coughs, and it's not long before he feels like he's swimming through his skin, lying flat on his back and watching the light through the leaves. It makes fascinating patterns.   
  
"Ryan's being...weird." Spencer says it slowly, but it's still more coherent than Brendon can manage right now. He suspects Spencer isn't stoned enough. He debates the merits of handing over the bowl so Spencer can smoke more, but then he decides it's too much effort and turns back to what Spencer actually said.   
  
"Like a puzzle piece," Brendon muses.   
  
"No. Like a Ryan-piece. A weird Ryan."   
  
There's a bug crawling across Brendon's stomach. He doesn't want it there, so he tugs clumsily at his shirt until it comes off and tosses it across the yard. "Fucking bugs. No, like a puzzle piece. He fit-" Brendon laces his fingers together over his head to demonstrate- "with us. Like a puzzle. Fitting together. And then he...one of his little...the outline. One of his little lumps got cut off. Or folded off, puzzles fold. And now he doesn't fit." He shakes his hands a little for emphasis.   
  
"Oh yeah," Spencer mumbles, and he lies down next to Brendon. "Why's your shirt gone?"   
  
"Bug."  
  
"There are a lot of bugs."   
  
"There was one on me. On my-" Brendon blinks for a second. He can't think of a good word for stomach. Belly sounds weird. Tummy sounds weirder. He just hits himself there a few times instead.   
  
"Oh."   
  
"I miss yours, Spencer. Spencer, where'd your soft go?" Brendon asks cheekily, and rubs a hand over Spencer's- fuck, now he can't even think the word.   
  
Spencer stiffens slightly, grabs Brendon by the wrist and forcibly removes his hand. Brendon trails the hand up and down his own skin instead, closing his eyes and  _feeling_  the grass against his back.   
  
"Stop," Spencer mutters. Brendon is confused. He slits one eye open to watch Spencer roll onto his stomach.   
  
"I can't stop, I'm high," he says eventually, and he giggles.   
  
  


. . .

  
  
  
Ryan stays in with them that night. They pile onto the couch with the dogs after a couple joints, sprawling out to watch Planet Terror. Brendon's got his head in Spencer's lap and it takes him about half the movie to realize that Ryan keeps shooting sideways glances at them, twitchy little reflexive movements, in time with the tap of his toe. His Sidekick won't stop buzzing. Brendon wants to hit it, but he's too lazy.   
  
“So this is what you guys do, huh?” Ryan asks softly. Cherry is getting her gun leg, so Brendon takes a second to reply.   
  
“Pretty much,” he says. “Sometimes with beer.” He grabs the joint from Spencer's fingers and takes a long drag.   
  
“Oh.”   
  
  


. . .

  
  
  
"Ribbit! Ribbit!" Spencer is still croaking behind him as they come up the front steps, and Brendon falls more than steps inside, laughing too hard to breathe.   
  
"Hey," he hears, soft from the end of the hallway.   
  
"Ryan! Ryan, look what we got," Brendon giggles, supporting himself against the wall. "Spence, show him!" Spencer holds up his hands, which are encased in plastic frog-shaped potholders, and moves so the mouths open.   
  
"Ribbit!" he squawks, and dissolves into laughter again. "Do the face, Bren." Brendon widens his eyes, stretches his mouth, and then realizes Ryan's just raising his eyebrows at them.   
  
"What's up, Ry?" he asks, still chuckling.   
  
"Nothing," Ryan says blankly. "Just didn't know where you guys went, is all. It's been, like, all day, and you didn't answer my text."   
  
"Sorry, I realized it's my cousin's birthday in a couple days. We made an emergency gift run. And then-"   
  
Spencer interrupts. "-we found these, and Brendon decided it would be a good idea to-"  
  
"-hop around the store," Brendon cackles, breathless.   
  
"Until he got kicked out," Spencer adds. "So I got them for him." He makes one of the frogs nip at Brendon's ass. Brendon jumps away and grins at Ryan, who looks utterly unimpressed.   
  
"Cool," Ryan monotones.   
  
"Um. What did you do?" Brendon asks. He feels suddenly uncomfortable.   
  
"Played with the dogs. Blogged," Ryan says. He shrugs. "Whatever."   
  
"We got hamburgers too, ready for dinner?" Brendon holds up the bag, and Spencer makes Vanna White-style gestures with his frog hands. Brendon giggles.   
  
"Sounds good." Ryan turns away.   
  
Spencer makes a sour face at Brendon behind Ryan's back, but they're both still smiling as they follow him outside.   
  
After dinner, they settle in for Guitar Hero. Brendon offers the controller to Ryan first, but he just shrugs and says, "I'll play winner." He sits and texts while Brendon kicks Spencer's ass.   
  
"Fuck you," Spencer says happily, and turns the guitar over to Ryan.   
  
"Uh, it's okay, go another round," Ryan says, texting furiously. "What are you guys doing tonight?"   
  
"More of this?" Brendon grins.   
  
"Oh. Alex is having a party, he's staying in LA for a couple weeks. I- uh, you could come?" Ryan offers. Spencer shakes his head, biting his lip.   
  
"We're good, thanks," Brendon says. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Ryan give them a puzzled look.   
  
"Okay," Ryan says dubiously. "Um. Have fun, I guess." He gathers up his wallet from the coffee table, and half-waves before heading out the door. Brendon's too busy laughing at Spencer to respond.   
  
It's maybe fifteen minutes and three decisive victories for Brendon later when Spencer flops down on the couch in surrender. "I fold," he says grumpily into a pillow.   
  
"Damn straight," Brendon replies, and turns on the TV. "Hey, you didn't want to go with Ryan, did you? I should've asked."   
  
Spencer snorts. "Nah. His friends are fucking weird. What's on?"   
  
"Pirates of the Caribbean!" Brendon exclaims, and hums the theme music.   
  
At the next commercial break, Brendon gets up to make popcorn. "Get your own," he protests, as Spencer grabs immediately at the most buttery pieces.   
  
"No."   
  
"Fuck off," Brendon retorts, and scoots to the arm of the couch so he can toss popcorn at Spencer. The second piece gets caught in Spencer's beard; the third, Spencer picks up off the couch and chucks right back. Brendon catches it in his mouth.   
  
"Nice," Spencer says mildly.   
  
Brendon wiggles his eyebrows. "I'm good with my mouth, what can I say," he smirks. It's probably Brendon's imagination that Spencer freezes for a split second before rolling his eyes.   
  
"Come back, I'll leave you the buttery bits," he concedes, and Brendon scoots over just in time for the movie to resume.   
  
"Keira Knightley's weird-looking," he observes, and rests his head on Spencer's shoulder.   
  
"That's because you like boys," Spencer points out.   
  
"You think she's hot?"   
  
"Sort of. Kinda looks like she'd break in half if you were too rough, though. Her wrists'd snap if you held her against a wall." Spencer says it completely casually.   
  
"Yeah," Brendon manages. He sits up straight and scoots a couple inches farther away.   
  
"You okay?" Spencer asks, raising his eyebrows.   
  
"Fine." Fine, fine, fucking  _fine._  Or he will be, once his brain decides to behave itself.   
  
"Orlando or Johnny, then?" Spencer grins. Brendon wrinkles his nose.   
  
"Johnny, obviously. Orlando can't act for shit. Barbossa or Norrington, I believe, is the tougher question."   
  
Spencer laughs, throwing back his head. Brendon swallows and quickly looks down at his popcorn. "Barbossa. Norrington would ask if it was good for me, and then he'd pretend it never happened."   
  
Brendon chuckles and settles back against Spencer's side, licking butter off his fingers. Spencer's hand comes up to card through his hair and Brendon does not, absolutely does not, feel a little thrill go through his stomach.   
  
  


. . .

  
  
  
Spencer knocks at 3 a.m.   
  
“It's Ryan,” he says, and it's grim and low and lost, “he's pretty fucked up.”   
  
Brendon can't bring himself to wake up and care. It feels familiar, in a way. “He was just...really fucked up,” Ryan would whisper, hunched shoulders prepared for rejection. “I'm so fucked up,” he'd laugh, years later, sprawled out on the dock while they watched the sun set over the lake.   
  
“Okay,” Brendon says, and Spencer shakes his head.   
  
“Fucked up,” in this case, apparently doesn't mean “So high he can't remember the way to the air mattress” any more. Spencer's dealt with that before. No. Now it means fever-glassy eyes and flushed cheeks and a laugh that's bright like staring into the sun.   
  
“Brendon,” he says breathlessly, “Brendon, your  _couch._ ” Spencer stands in the doorway while Brendon takes in the view; Ryan sprawled across the couch, stroking long fingers over the nubby material of a cushion, like he's never seen anything so beautiful before. Brendon's heart does a sickening sort of thud.   
  
“Can you get him some water, Spence?” Brendon asks quietly.   
  
“Brendon,” Ryan calls again from the couch, voice high and twisted, so Brendon sits down gingerly next to him.   
  
“What did you take?” he asks, and isn't surprised when the only answer is another laugh, verging on hysteria.   
  
“I feel so good, Brendon. I feel- I feel good,” and one spidery hand reaches out and ghosts down Brendon's arm. He can't help the shudder, but Ryan doesn't notice. “Brendon- Brendon,  _you_  feel good. You feel-” Ryan's staring, wide-eyed and fascinated, at his own hand running down Brendon's chest.   
  
“Stop,” Brendon says, maybe more harshly than he means to and less harshly than Ryan deserves. Ryan turns dazed eyes upward and smiles, blinding like Brendon hasn't seen in months, maybe longer.   
  
“Here,” Spencer says from the doorway, thank fuck, and hands the glass to Brendon, who shoves it at Ryan.   
  
“Drink.”   
  
“E?” Spencer asks, staring as Ryan gulps down the glass.   
  
“I think so. But he's...I don't know. Maybe something else too.”   
  
“Should we get him to a hospital?”   
  
“Fuck, Spence, I don't know! Since when am I the one who deals with Ryan?” Brendon snaps, and he can't look at Spencer's reaction in the ensuing seconds of dead silence. He just looks down at his hands and whispers, “Sorry.”   
  
“I know,” Spencer answers, cold and flat. “I know. I just- I can't.”   
  
Brendon nods. “I'll stay up with him.”   
  
“No, I should-”   
  
“No.” He turns to nod to Spencer again, authoritative like he knows what he's doing, and turns away again as Ryan starts stroking his hair. “Go to sleep, you can- in the morning.”   
  
Brendon watches Spencer’s back, stiff with anger, as he walks away.   
  
“Brendon, Brendon, Brendon Brenny bunny,” Ryan laughs breathlessly, and he's half on top of Brendon, elbows and familiar cologne everywhere, still with that sharp giggle that's making Brendon sick and angry.   
  
Angry, he says, “Get off me,” and  _shoves,_  and Ryan falls back onto the sofa with a gasp. Brendon clenches his teeth, looks down at his own hands, anywhere but Ryan. “I’m gonna get you some more water,” he says to the wall. “Don’t move.”   
  
He takes a second to breathe, bracing himself against the kitchen counter, fighting with the weird little knot of emotions that’s settled in his chest. Anger, mostly, and fear. He pushes it down, tries not to let his hand shake as he pours a glass of water.   
  
“Drink,” he says, and shoves it at Ryan. It’s hard to look at him, hard to take in the pink flush of his cheeks against the moss green of Brendon’s couch, hard not to shake him until he apologizes.   
  
“I feel so good, Brendon,” Ryan says, earnest and breathy, eyes burning over the rim of the glass. He won’t stop moving, squirming like the feeling of being in his skin is something new and exciting, tracing one long finger through the perspiration on the glass with a shudder.   
  
“What did you take, Ryan?” Brendon asks again, sadly this time. But he can’t be angry, not when behind the fascination Ryan looks so desperate.   
  
“E, I think,” Ryan mumbles, running a hand through his own hair. “Maybe something else. There were pills. Vodka. Pills,” he trails off, inspecting his wrist, the tattooed skin there. His eyes are frightening in their intensity, big and dark and almost all pupil, but his voice is absent, spacey.   
  
“You’re an idiot,” Brendon says unhappily, and he's not sure why he feels so guilty.   
  
“You’re soft,” Ryan counters, and now it’s Brendon he’s stroking, seizing Brendon’s wrist in one bony hand and placing it on his own cheek, rubbing it over his face. He’s feverishly hot, skin desert-dry and soft, and it almost burns. Brendon stays put and lets Ryan play ragdoll, leaves his arm limp while Ryan explores it, tracing patterns over his veins. He feels sick.   
  
"Let's...see what's on TV."   
  
He's barely settled on The Princess Bride when Ryan's on him again, scooting into Brendon's personal space like he never does and nuzzling into the side of his neck. Brendon closes his eyes and wishes it was real. He's always the one pushing boundaries like this, not so much now as he used to, but he's the one resting his head on Ryan's shoulder during movies or moving in close for a hug after shows, and if he's lucky Ryan won't pull back. Ryan never offers himself up like that, never offers or demands comfort, and Brendon wishes he'd let that go sometimes and just  _cling,_  but he's burrowing into Brendon's side with a sigh because of a chemical, nothing more.   
  
He repeats the lines like he always does, mumbling "Inconceivable," when Vizzini does and "As you wish," just before Buttercup pushes Wesley down the hill, but it's to distract himself more than anything. Ryan laughs anyway, a thin giggle that sends a shiver down Brendon's back. He ignores Ryan's constant movement next to him, the twitching and occasional touches, and he must fall asleep at some point.   
  
"I don't- I don't feel good," Ryan says, and Brendon is startled back into wakefulness.   
  
"Huh?" he mumbles, rubbing his eyes and looking to Ryan. Ryan's hunched against the arm of the couch, curled in on himself and shivering under the afghan.   
  
"I didn't mean to," he mutters, almost to himself, and looks up at Brendon pleadingly.   
  
"What?" Brendon says, and really, he just wants to go back to bed.   
  
Ryan looks down at his trembling hands. "It's not like you can judge, you've done shit before."   
  
"Ryan, I-" and Brendon's lost for words, frustrated and exhausted and really, were those two thoughts supposed to be related?   
  
"You were an asshole," Ryan says earnestly, like this makes total sense.   
  
"Ryan, really? You're the one who comes back to my house completely fucked up. I'm the one staying up to make sure you're okay," Brendon points out. He feels like he's explaining this to a five-year-old.  
  
"No, Lana. And you didn't- never mind. I feel- I hate- never mind." He slouches deeper into the cushion.   
  
"Are you okay?" Brendon asks hesitantly.   
  
"I don't feel good," Ryan mutters again, and buries his face in his knees.  
  
"I'm gonna make you some tea," Brendon says softly. He can see the sun starting to rise from his kitchen window as he sticks a mug in the microwave, the barest hints of pink peeking over the skyline. He's tired, eyes itching, but he can't quite tell whether the weight in his chest is exhaustion or Ryan.   
  
He grabs an old quilt from the hall closet as he heads back into the living room. Ryan is curled fetal on his side, skinny arms clutched tight around himself, shivering. He looks impossibly frail.   
  
Brendon remembers the way Ryan used to sleep in his old apartment, pressed almost against the wall in an effort to stay out of Brendon's space. Brendon was always the one to pull him closer, to slip an arm around his waist and smile into his neck, but when he woke up Ryan would always be sprawled across the bed, head tucked under Brendon's chin and leg hooked over Brendon's thigh. It hits Brendon like it hasn't in months, the space that's grown between them over the years. Ryan had Keltie and Brendon had one meaningless girl after another. They had Hollywood houses and king-size beds and so they stopped needing to cuddle close, to share body heat on a bare old mattress. He wants to touch, to smooth Ryan's sweaty hair back from his forehead and snuggle in next to him and turn back time.   
  
Instead, he hands Ryan the tea and the blanket and mutters, "I'm going to bed." Ryan nods, the rising sun casting golden shadows across his skin, and Brendon turns away.   
  
  


. . .

  
  
  
_"Hey," Brendon says quietly as he sits in the plastic chair next to Ryan's.  
  
"You didn't have to come." Ryan doesn't really acknowledge him, just stares at the watercolor on the opposite wall.   
  
"Brought you this," Brendon offers, and hands over a smoothie. Strawberry pineapple, his special formula, Ryan's favorite. It earns him a half-hearted quirk of the lips that's far from an actual smile. Ryan starts in on the smoothie without comment, so Brendon fidgets with his getting-on-the-small-side shirt and looks around. The hallway is bleached white and smells like antiseptic and he can't stand it.   
  
"So do they have any word yet?" he finally asks.   
  
"He'll be fine," Ryan says shortly. "He'll be the same as ever." He takes a loud, vehement suck at the smoothie.   
  
"That's good?" Brendon volunteers. Ryan shrugs.   
  
"It'll be fine, same as ever. We deal." He's tugging at one cuticle almost unconsciously, mouth a bitter little line. Brendon cautiously, slowly, reaches one arm around his shoulders, offering comfort the only way he knows how. Ryan stiffens (Brendon hadn't thought it was possible; his back was already completely rigid) for a second before relaxing into it slowly, going boneless until he's slumped over with his cheek on Brendon's shoulder.   
  
"We're gonna make it," Brendon tells him fiercely.   
  
"I just don't want to ever be like him. I can't- I won't be," Ryan vows, and there's only the faintest hint of a tremor in his voice, but Brendon can feel the tears starting to soak through his shirt. _   
  
  


. . .

  
  
  
The clock reads three pm, and Brendon squints for a second, confused, before remembering why he's slept so late. He burrows for a second back into his pillow before taking a deep breath and getting up. He pulls on jeans, scrubs at his eyes and heads into the kitchen.   
  
Ryan's on one side of the table, shoulders hunched sheepishly over the Style section of the newspaper, while Spencer's eyes are glaring lasers into the Business section.   
  
"Morning," he says, extra cheerful in a feeble attempt to break the tension.   
  
"Afternoon, actually. I guess we all had a late night," Spencer comments darkly.   
  
"I'm sorry," Ryan says, but he keeps his gaze trained on the paper. He looks heavy-eyed and pinched.   
  
"It's o-"   
  
"It's not okay," Spencer cuts in venomously.   
  
"Spence, you already gave me the lecture. Can we not do this again?" Ryan monotones.   
  
"It's okay," Brendon says again, and he catches Spencer's eye and silently implores him to drop it.   
  
"I'm gonna go shower," Ryan mutters, and Brendon flops down in the chair next to Spencer.   
  
"I'm sorry I went to bed, I just couldn't- I don't think I would've been able to stay without screaming at him," Spencer says.   
  
"It's okay. Really, Spence, I think it's gonna be okay. He- he was fucked up, yeah, but I think he was just blowing off steam. He's fine." Brendon tries to sound confident.   
  
"I don't know if he is," Spencer confesses, and there's an unhappy curl to the corner of his mouth. Brendon wants to smooth it away.   
  
"It was a bad break-up, you know how that feels," Brendon says, and maybe that's hitting below the belt, because Spencer puts down the newspaper and glares. "You know what I mean. A long relationship. And for Ryan, it just- it was sudden. You and Haley just kind of-"   
  
"Dissolved. I guess so." Spencer runs a hand through his hair. "I don't know- I don't know how to talk to him about it. He wouldn't talk to me." There's frustration straining his voice, a shade or two away from panic.   
  
"He will," Brendon says firmly, because if there's one thing that's always stayed constant in his life, it's Spencer and Ryan.   
  
"I was pretty hard on him," Spencer mutters.   
  
"Yeah. Well. Yeah," Brendon half-smiles. "Can't stay mad at him forever, though, right? What should we do today?"   
  
"Dunno. When does Shane get back?"   
  
"Not till tomorrow. Wanna hotbox the garage?”   
  
“Sounds like a plan.”


	2. (2/5)

Shane gets back late on Thursday night - more like Friday morning. Ryan's out again, while Spencer and Brendon are squabbling over the bag of chips in front of the TV.   
  
“Honey, I'm home,” comes the shout from the hallway.   
  
“Honey, get your ass over here, it's not worth getting up to hug you,” Brendon retorts, and Shane's pretending to pout when he comes into view. Brendon gives in and gets up. They do their manly little fist-bump, grin at each other, and then bear-hug.   
  
“Thanks for making sure this idiot was okay without me,” Shane says to Spencer.   
  
“Fuck you. I'm gonna get another beer, you want?” Brendon asks, and Shane nods emphatically.   
  
They sit down with their beers and make small talk about Shane's flight for a few minutes. “I, uh-” Shane says eventually. “I guess I should tell you something?”   
  
“Should you now?” Brendon asks.   
  
Shane hesitates, then takes a deep breath. “I'm moving in with Regan.”   
  
“That's awesome!” Spencer grins, and Brendon rolls his eyes. Shane actually looked nervous.   
  
“Dude, that's seriously awesome, I'm happy for you,” he reassures, and Shane smiles at him.   
  
“Okay, cool. I guess...I mean. I was thinking pretty soon after I get back from filming?”   
  
“No worries,” Brendon says. “It means we need to throw you an emergency goodbye party tomorrow night, though.”   
  
“Sounds good,” Shane laughs.   
  
  


. . .

  
  
  
Shane is with Regan the next day, but he promises to be back at the house around 8 for his party. Spencer, Ryan, and Brendon spend the morning at the park with the dogs and then go for lunch and shopping in Silver Lake. Ryan still seems distant, somehow, lost somewhere in his head, spacey and uninvolved. Brendon doesn't know what to do about it, so he carries on as usual, laughing with Spencer and pretending he's Cinderella as he tries on shoes.   
  
They go home to set up the house, bring out burgers and beer and Shane's favorite bong, and friends start to show around 9. Brendon's sent to get more beer a little while later, since he's voted Most Sober. He needs cigarettes anyway.   
  
There's a shriek of laughter from the backyard as he pulls in, then a crash and more laughter. He rolls his eyes. Hopefully they haven't knocked over the barbecue; at least, he wants another tofu dog.   
  
"Come get your booze," Brendon calls, and toes the door shut behind him. There's no answer, just a buzz of talk from outside.   
  
"Bren-" he hears, and nearly collides with Regan as she comes in through the sliding door.   
  
"What's up? Here," he says, and shoves a six-pack into her arms.   
  
"No, you'd better-" she says worriedly. Brendon raises his eyebrows and steps outside. There's a knot of people crowded around the bushes next to the short flight of stairs that leads up to the deck.   
  
"What-" he starts, and before he can finish, Shane's straightening up and pulling Ryan with him, a flushed, dazed-looking Ryan with leaves in his hair.   
  
"Brendon! Booze!" Ryan cries, and holds out his arms like a child.   
  
"-the fuck," Brendon finishes. He pushes past everyone and grabs onto one of Ryan's arms. He's swaying unsteadily. "Where's Spencer?" Brendon asks Shane, as the crowd around them begins to dissipate, going back to the pool and their food. The party's grown since he left.   
  
"Hotboxing the guest room with a couple people. Brendon, he fell. Like, just leaned over the side of the stairs and fell," Shane says urgently. "Should we take him to a hospital? I don't think he landed badly, and he was only on the third step, but-"   
  
Brendon looks at Ryan, who's grinning at him wordlessly. "No, he'll be fine. What- he was fine when I left, right? It was only a half hour ago, he must've..." They shouldn't bring him to the hospital right now, not when he must have more than just beer in him. "Whatever. Go enjoy your party," he says to Shane grimly, and pulls Ryan up the stairs. He needs some water, needs to sober up before Spencer sees him.   
  
"My skin was too hot, so I tried to jump in the pool, but the pool was really far away. I missed," Ryan informs him.   
  
"Yeah, that happens sometimes," Brendon says, all his concentration directed toward pulling Ryan up the stairs.   
  
"Let go of me," Ryan protests, seeming to suddenly realize that Brendon's holding him, and before Brendon can do anything, he's tugging himself out of Brendon's grasp, running back down the stairs, and shouting as he launches himself into the pool. Brendon just stares.   
  
He's not the only one. Most of their friends are watching with raised eyebrows as Ryan splutters to the surface, laughing breathlessly.   
  
"Ryan, c'mon," he says quietly, crouching by the side of the pool and feeling like he's talking to one of his dogs.   
  
"'Kay. My skin's not hot any more," Ryan says happily, and scrambles clumsily over the side. He puts one dripping-wet arm around Brendon's shoulder as they head for the house and Brendon lets him.   
  
"You know you just made an absolute dick of yourself, right?" he says quietly. It's probably no use telling Ryan that right now, but he can't help himself. Ryan just laughs.   
  
"I'm having fun," he says simply. Brendon isn't quite sure whether to believe him.  
  
  


. . .

  
  
  
"Die, motherfucker," Brendon crows, as Shane's character respawns.   
  
"Dude, I'm tired, shut up," Shane retorts.   
  
"It's only- oh. Yeah. Two in the morning, okay."   
  
"Call it a night?"  
  
"Are you giving up?"   
  
"Never. Or, at least, not till I finish this beer," Shane says decisively.  
  
There's silence, apart from the on-screen shots and explosions. Shane and Brendon spent most of the afternoon doing some packing, since Shane'll be moving out just a couple days after his last shoot. Spencer went to sleep an hour ago and Ryan's out. Brendon wishes that he'd maybe, occasionally, stay in with them, but whenever he thinks about bringing it up, he feels like a parent telling a teenager it's family night. He's not Ryan's parent. Still.  
  
"Where's Ryan?" Shane asks, reading Brendon's mind.   
  
"Out with- I dunno. Somebody. Hah, missed me."   
  
"Fuck you. Was Spencer pissed when you told him about last night? He didn't say anything to me."   
  
"I didn't tell him," Brendon confesses.   
  
"There was a huge bruise on Ryan's forehead, didn't he notice?"   
  
"I, uh. He asked Ryan, I was there. Ryan just said he tripped. I didn't say anything." He can tell Shane's trying to glare disapprovingly at him and he looks at the screen stubbornly.   
  
"I don't- you think he has a problem?" Shane asks quietly.   
  
"I think- no. He'll be fine. We'll start with the new album and he'll straighten himself out." He says it with more confidence that he feels.  
  
"He- I don't know," Shane says doubtfully.   
  
"He's an adult. He's allowed. He's still getting over the Keltie thing. I mean, I don't think it'll get any worse. So he's been drinking a lot." Brendon feels better about it as he keeps talking, like he's convincing himself too.   
  
"Gotcha," Shane grins.   
  
"Fuck you," Brendon retorts.   
  
The doorbell starts ringing, which is to say, it keeps ringing. Brendon pauses the game with a sinking feeling in his chest while Shane raises his eyebrows and pointedly says nothing.   
  
The bell is still ringing, the same two notes chiming over and over, when Brendon opens the door. It's Ryan. Of course it's Ryan. He's leaning into the doorframe, finger pressed against the button.   
  
"Heeeeyy," he slurs when he sees Brendon.  
  
"I gave you a key for a reason," is the only thing Brendon can think to say.   
  
"Oh," Ryan says, eyes genuinely shocked. "Right." He's still ringing the bell.   
  
"You should come inside." Brendon hooks one arm around Ryan's waist and pulls, and Ryan follows without protest. He's a dead weight, hanging from Brendon's shoulder and dragging his feet, and Brendon checks the driveway before closing the door behind them. At least there's no car, so Ryan got a taxi. Silver lining.   
  
Shane raises his head as they come in, and as Ryan flails one hand in a sort of wave he just looks dumbstruck. Brendon looks at him helplessly.   
  
"I'm going to bed," Shane says firmly, and Brendon knows this is him washing his hands of the entire thing. Of Ryan.   
  
"I-" Ryan starts, and then he's launching himself away from Brendon, stumbling to the bathroom. Brendon closes his eyes and tries to calm down. At least, from the sound of it, Ryan made it to the toilet. Another silver lining.  
  
"He's all yours," Shane says, and stalks toward the stairs.   
  
Brendon takes another deep breath before entering the bathroom. Ryan's slumped against the wall next to the toilet, narrow chest heaving. The front of his shirt is a mess. Brendon flushes the toilet for him, pours a glass of water.   
  
"I don't- don't want-" Ryan says as Brendon turns to hand him the glass. He's scrabbling at the front of his shirt, pulling at the snaps.  
  
"Your shirt has snaps?" Brendon is not proud to say. He's even less proud of the edge of hysteria that colors his voice.   
  
"Vintage," Ryan slurs, and then he's pulling the shirt off and clumsily tossing it in a corner, and Brendon is about to be sick himself.   
  
Ryan's always been thin, always been bony, but Brendon's seen him shirtless enough to know that it's normal for him. This...this is not normal. He can see every rib under too-pale skin, see the hollows under Ryan's collarbone, see every labored breath. Brendon's chest feels tight, too small for his heartbeat. He sinks down next to Ryan and hands him the glass of water, but after a few sips, Ryan turns and starts throwing up again. There's nothing but liquid coming up, pure alcohol and stomach acid, and Brendon wants to shake his head and stand up and run away. He can't. He just sits and waits, rubs circles into the cold skin of Ryan's back and tries to ignore the visible knobs of his spine.   
  
He doesn't know how much time goes by like that, sitting against the wall on the cold tile. He doesn't look at Ryan, tries not to hear the gasping breaths between bouts of vomiting, doesn't let himself focus on anything but the infinitesimal cracks in the ceiling. It could be four in the morning or just fifteen minutes later when he hears footsteps.   
  
Spencer's there before Brendon has a chance to react, squinting into the light with his hair mussed and pillow creases on his cheeks. Brendon's stomach clenches into a tight little knot.   
  
It takes a second for Spencer to really see what's happening - and then Brendon sees his eyes go wide, and whatever panic Brendon felt before is magnified a hundredfold as Spencer's expression turns, not to anger, but to fear. He can see Spencer's hands clench unconsciously into fists, see the same old reflex to protect, but there's nothing for him to do, no bullies to confront, no house to whisk him away from with the promise of a sleepover. Faced with this, with Ryan's back pale and hunched and heaving, there's nothing he can do.   
  
"He'll be okay," Brendon says, barely a whisper.   
  
"I- go to bed," Spencer says abruptly.   
  
"No, it's fine," Brendon protests.   
  
"No. This is- I'll take care of him." There's that same defensive, businesslike set in his shoulders that Brendon knows so well, even if he's seen less of it lately. Spencer's already grabbing a washcloth and running it under cold water.   
  
"Thanks," Brendon mumbles, and unfolds himself from the floor. "I-" he looks wearily at Spencer, pleading, and Spencer nods, cheeks still pink from sleep, lips pinched and twisted. Without thinking, Brendon raises a hand and smoothes the pad of his thumb across Spencer's mouth, a sudden childlike impulse to wipe the frown away. Spencer's eyes go wide and Brendon steps back, throat constricted, stomach fluttering again.  
  
"Night," he says quickly, and turns to go.   
  
  


. . .

  
  
  
Shane's the only one awake before Brendon the next day.   
  
“Sorry,” Brendon says before Shane has a chance to say anything. He looks a little surprised but mostly sympathetic.   
  
“S'okay. I know- Nothing you could've done about it, I guess.”   
  
“No, I- not fair to you,” Brendon mumbles around a coffee cup.   
  
“Nah, no worries. I'll be away again starting in a couple days, remember? You guys can sort your shit out. I've gotta go now, meeting.” Shane clears his dishes and hesitates before he goes to give Brendon a quick hug. “It'll work out, you guys always pull through.”   
  
“Thanks,” Brendon says, but he's dizzy all of a sudden. Never, not once, has he even considered that they wouldn't pull through, that Ryan wouldn't sort himself out, that the band wouldn't be together until they were too arthritic to play their instruments. The idea of it put into words, even in the form of a reassurance, is too much, a sort of rushing in his ears, a stabbing jolt in his stomach. He presses the heels of his hands into his eyes to keep from crying.   
  
“You okay?” is the next thing he hears, a couple minutes later. Spencer's standing in the doorway, pajama pants slung low on his hips, hair sticking up at odd angles.   
  
“Mostly,” says Brendon feebly, but no, that's not even true. He clenches his teeth and wonders how an adult would handle this situation.   
  
“We need to talk to him,” Spencer sighs, flopping down into a chair. He's pale and worn-looking and Brendon's rarely wanted to hug him so badly. He doesn't let himself touch. He's going to be a fucking adult, and he's going to handle this, and they're going to be fine. But really, thank fuck for Spencer.   
  
“I don't- what do we say?” Brendon asks quietly.   
  
“I have no clue,” Spencer mutters, face in his hands.   
  
“Just- I guess. Ask him what's wrong? He said some stuff, the other night, about being an asshole. I think he's still dealing with the Keltie thing.”   
  
“Yeah,” Spencer nods slowly. “Just- yeah.”   
  
Half an hour later, they're sitting in silence with their coffee when Ryan walks in. It's satisfying, in a way, that he looks worse than either of them, eyes bloodshot and baggy, skin dull.   
  
“Morning,” he croaks.   
  
“We need to talk to you,” Spencer says without preamble.   
  
"I'm sorry. I shouldn't have done that to you guys," Ryan rasps. His voice sounds awful, raw and wrecked.   
  
"We know. But seriously, Ryan, are you okay?" Spencer pleads. Brendon knows it was the wrong thing to say as soon as the words leave Spencer's lips. Ryan's eyes go dead in a way that Brendon knows all too well.   
  
"I'm fine," he says, voice absolutely clear of any sort of inflection. Spencer looks at Brendon, who doesn't know what to do except shrug.   
  
"We're worried about you," Spencer says softly.   
  
"It's nothing." Ryan's chin is set defiantly. "I got a little fucked up, I'm sorry you guys had to deal with it."   
  
"It's not-" Brendon says helplessly. "Are you still upset about Keltie?"   
  
Ryan blanches, face going dead pale, a snarl starting to tug at his lip. "No. Why do you guys keep bringing her up? That has nothing to do with anything."   
  
"'Just cause if you are - talk to us,” Brendon says. “Please, we want to help, we don't like to see you unhappy. I know how hard it must be-"   
  
"How would you know?" Ryan near-whispers. "How would you know what it's like? How long was your last relationship?" His voice is venomous.   
  
"That's not fair, Ryan," Spencer says softly. Brendon had almost forgotten about him; all he can see is Ryan's face, too pale, eyes dark and fierce.   
  
"Brendon, what gives you the right?" he asks, piercing and pointed. "It's not like you haven't done shit. You've done coke. Hell, you've done coke off my stomach. And now you're telling me what's okay?"   
  
"Brendon's never gotten like this before," Spencer interjects. "Ryan, we're your friends. We're worried about you."   
  
"Since when does a few fun nights mean you have a problem? You want to be my friends? Then be my fucking friends. Don't try to be my parents," Ryan snaps.   
  
"We care about you more than your parents ever did. Friends are the family you choose, remember?" Spencer says, so soft as to be almost inaudible. "And if you don't want to turn out like them..." It's the plain truth, it's nothing Ryan hasn't said himself before, but Ryan takes it like Spencer hit him.   
  
"I don't- I'm not-" he says, helpless and cracked, and then he's gone, spinning on his heel, and the door slams before Brendon can process what happened. All he can see is Ryan's face, wide-eyed and terrified.   
  
It takes him a second before he can move. He walks stiffly, mechanically, out the door, but Ryan's car is gone. He takes a deep breath and goes back inside.   
  
Spencer's right where Brendon left him, one hand braced on the table, mouth moving soundlessly. Brendon doesn't think about it before hugging him, wrapping shaking arms around Spencer's ribcage and squeezing as tightly as he possibly can. It's easier to breathe, somehow, when he can feel Spencer's racing heartbeat pressed just over his own.   
  
"I shouldn't have said that," Spencer whispers hoarsely into Brendon's hair.   
  
"No, it's true," Brendon says back, muffled in the faded cotton of Spencer's shirt. He can almost pretend that things might be okay, now that he's enveloped in Spencer, wrapped tight in muscled arms that feel solid, secure. But still he feels sick, chilled, like the rest of the world is spinning too fast and he can't catch up.   
  
"I miss him," Spencer confesses, gasps almost, thin and painful.   
  
"It'll be okay," Brendon vows, and holds on tighter. Right now, it's the only way he'll stay standing. He can feel Spencer's hands on him, warm and reassuring, clutching at the back of his shirt and cupping the nape of his neck, and it's the best thing he's felt in weeks, bone-melting and comforting beyond words.   
  
The next time Spencer speaks, his voice is calmer, the same no-nonsense tone that Brendon knows so well. "Have you talked to Jon?"   
  
"Nope," Brendon says miserably.   
  
"We should- call him," Spencer says, but he's gentle when he pulls away, one hand lingering at Brendon's waist like it doesn't want to leave.   
  
Brendon takes a deep breath and nods, attempts a smile. Spencer grabs the phone from the kitchen wall and dials.   
  
"Hey, it's Spence," he says after a second, and puts the phone on speaker.  
  
"Yo," Jon says. Brendon can hear his smile and he grins himself, in spite of everything. No matter how much time they all spend together, he always misses Jon when he's in Chicago.  
  
"How's everybody?" Brendon asks, because he can hear loud laughter in the background.   
  
"Great. Hanging out with Tom and Al, they have a show tonight. Beckett's here too, he says hi."   
  
"We- maybe we should call you back tomorrow," Spencer says.   
  
"Nah, it's cool, what's going on?"   
  
"It's- it's Ryan." Spencer looks to Brendon for help. “It was like. I don't know. It's been kind of weird since he's been here. He hasn't really been himself?”   
  
“The first couple days were just, like. Awkward. I don't know.”   
  
“Like he didn't know how to talk to us. He doesn't seem to want to hang out. I don't know.”   
  
"He's been getting pretty- he's been doing some stuff," Brendon contributes.   
  
"Define stuff?”   
  
"Coke. E. We don't know exactly, but he's been drinking pretty heavily too, and- we thought you'd want to know," Spencer finishes.   
  
"Huh," Jon muses, and even across the phone Brendon can picture him picking at the hem of his t-shirt, his usual mode of fidgeting while he thinks. "I wouldn't worry," Jon says eventually, and Spencer's eyebrows shoot up into his hairline.   
  
"Jon, you'd worry if you were here," he says. "We tried to talk to him about it today. And I might've said something...I might've set him off a little. But he walked out, he- he's not doing so well."   
  
"He'll be fine, don't worry about it," Jon says again. "You'll see. We need to start writing songs again soon, he'll settle right down. Don't worry, it was the same way with- well. Yeah, I've seen it before. He's just bored, maybe. He needs to have something to do."   
  
And in Jon's tone of voice, it all sounds so logical. Boredom. Simple. Maybe it's just a phase.   
  
"You think?" Brendon says hopefully.   
  
"I know. Seriously, I wouldn't worry." Spencer's smiling a little too, nodding.   
  
"Thanks," he says to Jon. "We'll talk to you soon, yeah? Say hi to everyone for us."   
  
"Will do. Peace," Jon says, and hangs up.   
  
Spencer's shoulders relax a little as Brendon watches him put the phone back on the hook. "I'm gonna go take a shower," he says. "We should stay in today, for when- to wait for Ryan."   
  
"Good idea," Brendon says. There's still a lingering ball of unease at the pit of his stomach, and he has a feeling it won't go away until they talk to Ryan. Spencer heads for the bathroom and Brendon grabs a guitar.   
  
He's sitting on the porch, picking out "All The Small Things," when Spencer emerges, running a hand through damp hair. He smiles at the song choice.   
  
"Kind of surreal, huh? Start out covering them, end up opening for them?" He sits down next to Brendon and there's pride in his voice, even if he's looking down at his hands.   
  
"We're doing pretty good," Brendon grins, and hammers out the opening line of "The Rock Show."   
  
Spencer plays fetch with the dogs for a while as Brendon fiddles with some chord progressions. There's one he likes, really likes, but it's poppy and polished, nothing like the rough demos they'd recorded on Garage Band during the last tour.   
  
"'S’good," Spencer comments, chucking the tennis ball one more time as he sits down on the other lounge chair.   
  
"Yeah," Brendon muses, and he remembers Ryan. It feels so wrong to even be thinking about writing songs without him, this great gaping hole that should be filled with obscure metaphors and pursed lips. He shakes it off. They're not writing anything without Ryan.   
  
"Put your clothes back on, I'm home," Shane hollers, and Brendon hears the door slam.   
  
"We're out here," Spencer calls back, and Shane comes out the door.   
  
"How's Ryan?" he asks, glancing toward the pool and then, puzzled, between the two of them.   
  
"He's not here," Spencer says shortly.   
  
"What happened?" Shane asks, and plops down next to Brendon.   
  
"We tried to talk to him, he walked out," Brendon says. His stomach is twisting again.   
  
"Dude," is Shane's answer, and he looks concerned and worried and everything else Brendon doesn't want anyone to be right now.   
  
"We talked to Jon, though, he thinks it's gonna be okay," Spencer reassures him.   
  
"How?"   
  
"He thinks Ryan's just bored," Brendon answers.   
  
"Brendon. You do realize Ryan spent the last break here watching America's Next Top Model reruns, right?" Shane says. Brendon shakes his head mutely. He doesn't want to think about this. There's nothing wrong. This is just different, and yet Shane's looking at him like he's an idiot.   
  
"He'll be fine," Spencer says firmly, and Brendon casts him a grateful look.   
  
"Okay," Shane says dubiously. "Halo or Rock Band?"  
  
They waste away most of the afternoon playing video games, but Brendon feels sick. Shane said exactly what he was refusing to consider, and the more he turns it over in his mind, the more flaws he can see with Jon's idea. He can't concentrate, can't play even the songs he knows by heart, keeps glancing at the clock and willing Ryan to walk through the door.   
  
"You okay?" Spencer asks around six, after Brendon's flubbed the easiest drum solo ever. He puts one hand on Brendon's shoulder, warm and reassuring, and Brendon leans into it, letting out a breath he didn't know he'd been holding.   
  
"Fine," he says softly, "Just tired. I'm going to make dinner." Spencer raises an eyebrow. Brendon half-smiles up at him and repeats, "Fine."   
  
They stay up late that night, watching movies even though Brendon's exhausted, a leaden weight settled into his limbs. Shane goes to bed early and it's just the two of them, straight-faced and somber through Blazing Saddles. Brendon can't help looking at the door every few minutes.   
  
It's two in the morning when Spencer says, "We should go to bed."   
  
"But-"   
  
"No. We have the Blink tour thing tomorrow. We need to sleep."   
  
"What if-"   
  
"Ryan will be there. He wouldn't miss this for the world," Spencer says firmly, and Brendon glances at the door one more time before standing up wearily.   
  
His bed feels cold and empty and too big, and as exhausted as he is, he can't sleep. He feels like a child again, lost and helpless, in far over his head. Brendon tosses and turns for what feels like a lifetime, but no matter how he curls up, the bed never seems to get warmer. He's about ready to get up and get another quilt when he hears a knock. Brendon's heard pounds painfully in the hope that it's Ryan, but before he can find his voice, the door cracks open and Spencer peers inside.   
  
"Can I-" he clears his throat and, instead of finishing his sentence, crawls into bed with Brendon. He's a warm, comforting weight as he scoots over so they're almost touching. "Is this okay?" he asks softly, and Brendon doesn't answer, just wriggles in close and buries his head in the crook of Spencer's arm. It's  _perfect._  He can feel his eyes drooping shut already.   
  
"Thank you," Spencer whispers.  
  
  


. . .

  
  
  
_"Ryan?" Brendon hears Spencer whisper from his left.  
  
"Yeah. Can't sleep," Ryan whispers back, over the sound of Brent's snoring.   
  
"Me neither," Brendon pipes up timidly.   
  
"Don't know how he can," Spencer mutters, and Brendon sees his outline, silhouetted in the faintest bit of moonlight, as he sits up. Ryan tiptoes over Brent's sleeping form and settles down on the edge of Brendon's sleeping bag, leaning his head against Spencer's shoulder.   
  
"He said we had  **something he'd never heard before,** " Ryan says again, awe coloring his voice even though they've been over this hundreds of times already today. "He said Brendon had  **charisma**." Brendon can't help but snort at that. He'd tripped over his feet three times during their performance. Spencer just lets out a strangled, happy sound, no words. Brendon knows what he means.   
  
"I-" Spencer starts, and stops again. Brendon gropes in the darkness until he finds both their hands, Spencer's large and callused, Ryan's slim and delicate. He squeezes with everything he's got and Ryan gives a watery sort of chuckle.   
  
"You guys," Brendon breathes.   
  
"I know," and Spencer's voice cracks on the whisper. Brendon can tell he and Ryan are holding hands too, the three of them linked, forever and inextricably, as they sit there in the darkness, with the weight of the day pressing in on them like the most wonderful kind of suffocation.   
  
"You guys are-" Ryan chokes, barely audible, and he clears his throat and tries again. "I can't- You guys are the best family I've ever had."   
  
Brendon grins stupidly and tackles Ryan into a awkward hug, ignoring the squawk of protest and clinging until Ryan's hands find their way to Brendon's back, holding on for dear life. They topple over when Spencer joins in, two pairs of arms anchoring Brendon and leaving him breathless.   
  
"The fuck," Brent mumbles from above them, and Brendon realizes they landed on his feet. "So fucking gay."   
  
"Group hug," Spencer laughs, one hand finding the ticklish spot just under Brendon's ribs.   
  
"Tomorrow. Sleep," Brent yawns, and turns over. Spencer, Ryan, and Brendon are still tangled together, Brendon's leg half-twisted uncomfortably beneath him, and they separate a little sheepishly, sitting back up. But they're still in their circle, Spencer's knee brushing Brendon's and his hand on Ryan's wrist, grinning at each other. Brendon knows he's exactly where he belongs. He's with his family._   
  
  


. . .

  
  
  
He drifts slowly awake the next morning, growing only gradually aware of how closely he and Spencer have intertwined in their sleep. One hand is pressed against Spencer's heart, the only thing between their bodies, and the other is curled at his back, fingers brushing bare skin where his shirt is rucked up. Spencer's hand is splayed at the base of Brendon's spine, just above the curve of his ass, and the bare skin of his neck against Brendon's forehead is hot and soft. Brendon's on the verge of overheating, but he can't bring himself to move.   
  
It brings back memories of the early days, when they first started touring; he'd climb into Spencer's bunk some nights, unable to sleep, not used to the rolling movement of the road, not used to having someone who would let him cuddle. He doesn't know when they all lost that, the easy touching they used to share. Maybe it was the girls; when they had someone else to sleep with, they didn't need each other any more. Maybe it was growing up, the forced change, the feeling of immaturity Brendon still gets with the impulse to hug. Whatever happened, he suddenly misses it like he's been punched in the stomach.   
  
"Morning," Spencer mumbles, yawning into Brendon's hair and unconsciously settling closer. His hand traces lazy circles up Brendon's spine, slipping under his shirt, and Brendon nuzzles his neck without thinking about it, lips brushing just below Spencer's jaw. Spencer shifts as if to pull away and Brendon pulls closer.   
  
"Don't. M'sleepy," he whispers hoarsely.   
  
Spencer stays, moving his hand from Brendon's back to his neck, scratching gently like Brendon's a puppy. He wants to stay like this all day.   
  
"We should," Spencer starts reluctantly, and Brendon pulls away a few inches to glare at him.   
  
"No," he says petulantly, because dammit, he just woke up and it's his bed and he's allowed to be a child, fuck what they  _should._  Spencer smiles at him softly, eyes half-closed and happy.   
  
"'kay," he whispers, but he doesn't close his eyes and Brendon doesn't move. They stay locked like that for a long moment as Brendon counts heartbeats. His are going oddly fast.   
  
He can see every one of Spencer's freckles, standing out against sleep-flushed cheeks. He feels dazed as Spencer inclines his head, just the slightest bit, so their foreheads touch, and Brendon breathes in shakily, scared to break this- whatever this is.   
  
But he knows this, this is the moment before a kiss, this is Spencer's breath ghosting over his jaw and Spencer's fingers sliding across his neck and sending tingles down his spine, and Brendon's stomach does a single flip-flop before he starts to lean in...  
  
...and someone knocks on the door.   
  
Spencer's breath catches in his throat, eyes flying wide open. "Ryan?" he whispers, and Brendon's scrambling over him, forgetting, for the moment, what just happened.   
  
"Ry-" he says, as he flings open the door, but it's Shane, hand raised like he's about to knock again.   
  
"No, sorry," Shane says guiltily. "I-" and then he seems to notice Spencer, who's sitting in Brendon's bed looking disappointed. Shane raises his eyebrows and Brendon shrugs defensively.   
  
"Huh,” Shane says. “Um. No, not Ryan, sorry. He's- he didn't come home last night, I checked. I just wanted to tell you I'm leaving."   
  
"Oh, right. See you in a couple days, then?" Brendon gives him a quick, awkward hug and Shane waves to Spencer as he turns to go.   
  
Brendon slumps against the doorframe, realizing as his hands shake how much he wanted Ryan to be on the other side of that door. He can hear Spencer's bare feet padding across the floor towards him.   
  
"I'm gonna-" he starts, but he can't remember the rest of the sentence when he turns around and finds himself chest-to-chest with Spencer.   
  
"Yeah, I was gonna-" Spencer says, looking down at his feet. Brendon's heart is thumping crazily in his chest. Spencer looks up, eyes piercing and wide, and he goes dry-mouthed for a second. Spencer's staring like he can see inside Brendon's head, and that what makes him step back quickly, bumping against the door. He really doesn't want Spencer knowing what he's thinking about right now.   
  
"Shower," he finishes.   
  
"Right," Spencer says easily, like nothing happened, and Brendon has to remind himself to breathe as he walks down the hallway toward the bathroom. It was nothing. Early-morning disorientation. Nothing.  
  
He checks the time on the way to the shower. It’s only noon, and the Blink party isn’t until 9. Ryan has plenty of time to get back. No reason to worry.   
  
He showers and gets dressed, and heads into the living room. Spencer’s frowning at the wall, telephone cradled between his shoulder and ear.   
  
“Ry, please come back,” he says into the receiver. “Please. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said that.” Brendon wonders if it’s the first message he’s left. Spencer hangs up and turns to him, shoulders slumped.   
  
“He won’t pick up?” Brendon asks. Spencer shakes his head.   
  
“He’ll be home,” Spencer says firmly. It sounds like he’s willing it to be true.   
  
They spend the afternoon in the pool, and Brendon knows he's not the only one who keeps glancing at the door. There's no sign of Ryan as the hours wear on, no missed calls, no texts. Brendon can't breathe.   
  
“I'm gonna make dinner,” he calls, early, and heads inside to make pasta.   
  
He busies himself with water, tomatoes, onions, and garlic when he gets into the kitchen, but he's not remotely hungry. There's a constant refrain of  _what if what if what if_  running through his head. He chops the tomatoes with more force than is completely necessary and then starts in on the onions, but as soon as his eyes start stinging, he's gone. He lets the tears fall, hand still chopping rhythmically, eyes completely clouded over, choking with the effort of keeping himself quiet, until his hand falters and he feels a sharp pain in his finger.   
  
"Fuck," he says bitterly, and lets go of the knife, sinking to the floor and feeling roughly five years old. It's just too much, too much fear, nothing left to hold on to, Ryan's words still resounding through his head and hurting worse than his thumb. He knows, in a distant corner of his mind, that he's dripping blood on his jeans, but he just. Doesn't. Care.   
  
"You okay?" he hears, and Spencer's standing in the doorway.   
  
"I cut myself," Brendon whimpers, and how is he  _such a child._  Spencer grabs a paper towel and sits down next to him, wrapping one arm around Brendon's shoulders to press the towel into his thumb.   
  
"It's fine, not that deep," Spencer says, and Brendon starts crying again, rough sobs fighting through his chest until he's shaking.   
  
"I can't do anything right, I can't, I don't know what to do, and it hurts, Spencer, this fucking hurts, and I feel so fucking useless," he babbles, all in one broken breath, burying his damp face in Spencer's shoulder.   
  
"Me too," Spencer says softly. Brendon curls in closer, wrapping one arm around Spencer's stomach and cradling the injured hand in his lap. Spencer just waits, callused thumb rubbing gently at Brendon's shoulder, warm and familiar. Brendon can breathe, finally, feels the tension melting away, until the last of his tears have disappeared into Spencer's shirt and he's taking deep, shuddering breaths. Spencer still doesn't move. Brendon doesn't have words to express how grateful he is, how much the simple physical contact helps.   
  
"Sorry," he whispers.   
  
"Shut up," Spencer whispers back, and Brendon can hear him smiling. "Should I finish up the pasta?"   
  
"No, I got it," Brendon says shakily, but Spencer helps him anyway.   
  
  


. . .

  
  
  
Ryan doesn't show.  
  
"Ready?" Spencer doesn't-really-ask, lips set thin and white. Brendon's not. Not at all. This is wrong, this is the world sliding out from beneath his feet, he can't  _breathe_  so how is he supposed to go out and smile to photographers and pretend he's fine? "I'll be right there panicking with you," Spencer says softly, and Brendon's laughter is just at the edge of hysteria. Spencer reaches out and squeezes his hand, and they get out of the car and face the spotlights.   
  
It's a blur of nightmare moments, flashbulbs and baring his teeth in what he hopes is a smile, telling reporters that Ryan's home with the flu, and Spencer's hand on the small of his back is the only thing that lets him breathe. He can't help but keep glancing beyond the photographers, heart thudding every time another car pulls up. There's a  _space_  at his side where there should be messy hair and shitty fashion choices and a dry monologue about other peoples' shittier fashion choices. Now, there's just Spencer, taking a spare moment, free of reporters, to take Brendon's hand in his and ease the iron band that's taken up residence around Brendon's lungs. Brendon squeezes back and closes his eyes for the barest second, and then there's a camera in his face and Spencer's hand, his lifeline, is gone.   
  
He makes it, barely. He's dry-eyed and mostly composed and then it's over, it's over and Ryan's  _not there._  
  
"Go, please," he chokes out and Spencer hits the gas before the tears start to fall.   
  
Brendon can't breathe, can't see, can't feel anything but the sobs wracking his body and the thumping throb of dread in the base of his stomach. He doesn't really notice when Spencer pulls over, just stops the car at the side of the road, until there's a hand on his shoulder and the quick, stifled gulp of a sob that isn't his. Brendon scrambles over the gearshift without thinking, clambering awkwardly into Spencer's lap, barely seeing. He needs to touch, needs to know he's not alone.  
  
How did they get here? How did he let this happen? Was it gradual, something he should've seen in time? All he knows is that it could be too late to fix.   
  
It  _hurts_ , this rushing in his ears, the corrosive desperation that's spinning his head in circles. It feels like the last fight with his parents, the way something had just  _broken,_  and the simple act of walking down the steps had been something irreversible and irreconcilable, the step off the edge of a cliff into an awful, inevitable fall. But he still wants to hope, even after everything.   
  
He doesn't know how long he's collapsed there, sprawled in Spencer's lap. He can't seem to shake it, the sickness, the fear, the heart-stopping feeling of an  _end._  He still feels nauseous when the tears begin to dry, shaking sobs turning into watery hiccups and then to deep, gasping breaths, harsh against his raw throat. Spencer's holding on like Brendon's a life preserver.   
  
"We're not giving up on him," Spencer says, fierce even though his voice sounds destroyed. "I'll call Pete tomorrow, we'll find him. We'll do whatever it takes. He's not- we might need to write the album without him. But he'll be all right."   
  
"Write it without him?" Brendon whispers, numb.   
  
"We- if this is how it's gonna be- I don't know what else to do," Spencer confesses.   
  
"The band- if something happens to the band- I don't know what to do. Just tell me how to fix it, how do I make it better, what- what did I do? Spence, it's all I have, I can't lose it, we can't lose him, it's  
everything. It's- this is everything." His voice cracks and he takes a deep breath, burying his face in Spencer's chest. He'd walk to hell and back if Spencer told him to do it, and Spencer  _doesn't know._  Spencer  _can't_  not know.   
  
"No," Spencer snaps. "No, Brendon. Look at me." He slides a hand between them to cup Brendon's chin, tilts it up till they're face-to-face. "Brendon," he says, and his eyes are blazing. "I promise, whatever happens, you have me. Always."   
  
Brendon can feel things splintering, cracking deep and irreparable, but all he can feel is a fiery rush of gratitude and maybe something else, something he really doesn't want to think about. He places his own hand over Spencer's where it's cupped around his jaw, laces their fingers and presses a soft kiss to the delicate inside of Spencer's wrist. It's not enough. He leans forward, brushes his lips over the corner of Spencer's mouth, and whispers in his ear: "I love you."   
  
He buries his face in Spencer's neck and wills his heart to slow, trying not to notice the way Spencer goes stiff for a second before petting Brendon's hair again.  
  
He breathes, feels Spencer's thumb stroking the back of his neck, inhales the mix of cologne and sweat and sweet that's always been  _Spencer._  He can still feel the part of his lips that were pressed, ever so briefly, against Spencer's. It feels like Fever all over again, a simple brush of a kiss and he can smell facepaint and velvet.   
  
"You too, Bren," Spencer mumbles into his hair. Spencer's rubbing circles into his back, skin warm under Brendon's cheek, and even though (he finally realizes) his legs are cramped and his back twisted awkwardly, he wants to melt into Spencer and not move until this all blows over.   
  
He untangles himself a few minutes later, and he feels like he should be reeling, should be stunned at the way his world is being rocked to its core. But instead, he feels calmer than he has in days.   
  
“Let's go home?” he asks, and Spencer starts the engine.   
  
Any sense of calm disappears when he sees Ryan's car sitting in the driveway. He can feel his heart thumping in his throat.   
  
"Spence," he whispers, and Spencer's ghastly white next to him, but he nods stiffly and gets out of the car. Brendon wonders if he's going to pass out, but he follows.   
  
Ryan's sitting on the couch, head bowed, hands folded in his lap and chest heaving. If he were anyone else, Brendon knows he'd be crying. He's seen this before.   
  
"I know this isn't enough, but I'm sorry," Ryan says to his own hands. Brendon sits down hard on the couch next to him. It's so far from anything approaching enough.   
  
"We told them you had the flu," Spencer spits. His voice is shaking. "We had to stand there and smile and tell them you were sick, when you and I both know there was a time when nothing short of an atom bomb would have made you miss that. What. The  _fuck._  Happened."   
  
"I don't know. I didn't- I didn't think you wanted me back," Ryan says thinly, so soft Brendon has to strain to hear it.   
  
"We'll always want you back," Brendon vows helplessly. What else can he say?  
  
"I'll be better. I'll try to get better," Ryan looks up, finally, eyes bloodshot and begging.   
  
"Please don't do that to us again," Spencer says, voice shaking still, but Brendon doesn't think it's anger any more.   
  
"I promise," Ryan says fiercely, and he stands up and wraps skinny arms around Spencer, who sighs into it. It's the first time Brendon's seen them touch in weeks, he realizes.   
  
"How do we know you mean it this time?" Brendon asks. He doesn't want to doubt, he really doesn't, but.   
  
"I just- I missed a tour announcement. For our tour. With  _Blink-182._  I guess - I scared myself." Ryan frees himself from Spencer and looks beseechingly at Brendon. He half-shrugs and Brendon can't help it, never could; he jumps up and flings himself at Ryan.   
  
"Please, please, please," Brendon whispers without thinking. It all feels too fragile, but god does he want it to be real, for everything to be right again. Ryan, nearly two-dimensional in Brendon's arms, isn't even the most delicate thing here.   
  
"Want to watch Moulin Rouge?" Spencer says nervously, and Ryan beams at him. They settle into the couch with Hobo and Bogart curled at their feet and they sing along just like they used to. Brendon looks to Spencer at his favorite part, the descent of the swing. He sees Spencer staring raptly not at the screen, but at Ryan's profile, half-smiling, his eyes showing the same blend of terror and hope that Brendon's feeling so intensely right now, hope that this might be enough to start repairs, start plastering over the cracks.   
  
Try as he might, Brendon can't sleep that night. It all just feels so  _fragile,_  so fleeting, and he wants to get up and crawl onto Ryan's air mattress and make him swear, again and again, that it'll be okay. He wants to hope. Hope is never something he's had a problem with; he remembers, all too clearly, when that and a couple smoothies a day were all that kept him going. But this feels too big, too sudden, for him to do anything but take a deep breath and hold on for the ride.   
  
The clock reads three when he gives up and pulls on sweatpants. He needs air, maybe, or a hot cup of tea, or a joint. He goes with the first, stepping out onto his porch and taking a deep breath. It's a perfect night, clear and warm and breezy, and the pool is glinting there in the light from the half-moon, so he slips down his sweatpants, pads down the steps, and lowers himself into the water.   
  
It's a couple degrees over the air temperature, complete perfection, but Brendon's still having trouble breathing. He does a couple laps, trying to splash as little as possible, and grabs the edge of the diving board for a pull-up. He just wants to be able to  _relax,_  for fuck's sake.   
  
He almost lets go and splashes right back into the pool when he sees Spencer, silhouetted in the light from the living room, watching through the sliding door. Spencer starts when he realizes Brendon's seen him, but Brendon just grins and jerks his chin in invitation, and Spencer hesitates, but pulls open the door and tiptoes down the stairs.   
  
"Sorry, I heard you get up. Couldn't sleep either?" Spencer says uncomfortably. He perches on the edge of the pool and dangles his feet.   
  
"Too much," Brendon says, letting go with one hand and gesturing to his own head. He wonders how well the water's concealing him. Probably not at all. He drops down and doggy-paddles over to Spencer.   
  
"I, uh- don't want to disturb you," Spencer mutters, looking everywhere else but Brendon and his nakedness. Brendon should poke his pale calf and tease him mercilessly about being a blushing virgin flower. Instead he just wants to cover himself up.   
  
"You should come in," Brendon says instead. "I'll turn around, even." He turns around and hears Spencer hesitate for a moment before stripping off his boxers and shirt. For all that Brendon tries, he can't suppress the little thrill that skips through the base of his stomach. He can feel the ripples as Spencer steps into the pool and Brendon knows all too well how he does it, dipping in one toe and then one foot, slow step after slow step no matter how warm the water is. He doesn't, absolutely  _does not,_  consider how Spencer's motherfucking  _naked_.   
  
"I'm decent," Spencer says dryly, and it's a whisper, but it carries in the dead silence. Brendon turns around and is faced with Spencer's back.   
  
Jesus.   
  
He's stretching, hands linked over his head, muscles bunching and shifting under moonlit skin, hips cocked. Brendon can't breathe. It's too much, too much pale freckled skin, too many images flashing across his mind of what Spencer's back would look like if he was fucking Brendon, pressing him hard into a wall, shoulders tense, neck arched like it is right now,  _fuck._  
  
Brendon steps backward, hits the sloping part of the floor where shallow meets deep, and slips spectacularly, spluttering to the surface again to see Spencer staring at him bemusedly.   
  
"Shut up," Brendon says preemptively. Spencer grins, the mischievous one that makes his eyes sparkle, and breaststrokes closer. Brendon circles around him cautiously, really not eager in any way for Spencer to notice what's going on with his dick right now. But is he really to blame? 'Cause seriously,  _Spencer,_  blue eyes and  _skin_ , and it's three in the fucking morning and they're naked, and Brendon can feel all too acutely where the ripples from Spencer's movement are washing over his own over-sensitized skin. He fixes his gaze carefully on a spot of peeling paint on the porch.   
  
"Bren, get out of your head," Spencer says softly. Brendon starts.   
  
"Sorry," he whispers, and smiles back at Spencer. They're both just treading water, moving ever so slightly so it's like they're circling each other, and Brendon can see Spencer's mouth glistening with water. He gulps. When the  _fuck_  did  _this_  happen.   
  
"I know," Spencer says, and Brendon's heart stops. "It feels kinda...shaky, doesn't it? Unreal. I'm worried too."   
  
Right. That.   
  
"Yeah," Brendon stutters, and that's the distraction he needs to get his dick to behave. He manages to get Spencer-worry out of his head long enough for all the rest of the worries to come rushing back. Awesome.   
  
He takes a deep breath and looks up at the sky. The stars are out in full force (well, for LA) and there's not a cloud in sight. He's wondering if he'll be able to sleep now when a splash lands directly in his face.   
  
"You fucker," Brendon laughs breathlessly when he surfaces again. Spencer rolls his eyes and points at the house, then mimes "shhh." Brendon laughs again, quieter this time, and dashes an arm through the water to send it at Spencer.   
  
"Oh, it's on," Spencer stage-whispers, and then Brendon's fleeing to the shallow end as Spencer launches his attack, choking on his laughter so he doesn't rouse Ryan or the dogs.   
  
Spencer's almost on top of him when Brendon turns around to fight, having come up against the side of the pool. He manages a half a breath before the chuckle dies on his lips and the last of Spencer's armful of water runs off his face. Spencer's maybe half a foot away, too fucking  _close,_  so that Brendon can smell the lingering traces of his cologne even over the chlorine.   
  
It's quiet enough that he can hear every breath Spencer takes, from the heaving ones as he chokes back laughter to the stuttered realization of how close they are. His heart jumps. His skin feels too hot.   
  
One second Brendon thinks he might lean in, and the next he's stepping back, smiling easily like nothing ever happened.   
  
"Too chicken?" Spencer teases lightly. "Nah, you're right, we're being too loud."   
  
Brendon was thinking nothing of the sort (oh, god, the things they could do that would be so much louder), but he'll take the out.   
  
Spencer settles on the steps, deep enough that he's up to his waist in water, and rests his chin in his hands. Brendon sits next to him, careful not to get too close.   
  
"Nice night," he comments. Shit, how boring can he get, seriously. Spencer just smiles.   
  
It's quiet, except for the soft lap of water at the sides of the pool. Brendon can feel the tension inside him unwinding, dripping slowly away and evaporating into the warm spring air.   
  
"I meant what I said earlier," Spencer says softly. He places a hand right next to Brendon's on the concrete step and Brendon watches the water distort their images. "I'm here. We're gonna be okay."   
  
Brendon stares as he inches his hand closer, pinky finger brushing over Spencer's, their skin cool under the water. He can feel it like an electric shock. He takes a deep breath and intertwines their fingers, looking up at the same time Spencer does, so that their eyes meet with a jolt Brendon can feel sizzling through his limbs.   
  
He doesn't know who leans in first, only that Spencer's eyes are getting bigger and he's drowning in them, with only a fleeting thought of  _it can't be this easy_  before their lips meet.   
  
But apparently, it  _is_  that easy. It's soft, gentle, sweet. It feels so  _right_  that Brendon can't believe they've never done this before, lips wet as they slide together like interlocking puzzle pieces,  
water-cooled skin the perfect contrast to Spencer's tongue as it darts out, hot and searching, to flicker at Brendon's lower lip, hands still locked together between them on the rough step. Spencer's mouth on his is all he can feel.   
  
Brendon has to pull away for air and Spencer's eyes are  _right there,_  blueblue _blue_  and so close they're blurry, and Brendon just  _wants._  He mouths at one of the freckles on Spencer's neck, moves down to nip at his collarbone, and then Spencer's hands are clutching at Brendon's back and he's fucking  _panting,_  low and harsh, tangling a hand in Brendon's hair to pull him up and crash their mouths together again. His hands are all over Brendon's back, tugging and stroking, leaving a slow burn wherever they've touched, until one palm grazes over the curve of Brendon's ass and he arches shamelessly into the touch. Spencer groans, ragged, and pulls Brendon closer, so Brendon swings a leg over and straddles him, and the stupid concrete of the steps is killing his knees but Spencer's choked whisper, "Fuck, Bren-" is so, so worth it.   
  
He's heard Spencer jerk off (it's unavoidable on the bus, really) but it's nothing like this, the waves slapping gently against their skin as Brendon grinds down, his own moan joining Spencer's litany of whispered curses and rough breathing. Spencer's hands are cupped over Brendon's ass, reverent almost, and he leans forward to tongue at Brendon's nipple, and Brendon wants  _more, fuck,_  whimpers and arches forward, so close already with Spencer's mouth fiery on his skin and wicked red, tonguing a path up Brendon's neck, biting ruthlessly into the curve of his shoulder and pressing a soft kiss into the same spot, and-  
  
Bogart barks.   
  
Spencer's frozen in an instant, chest still heaving, and Brendon grinds down once more almost involuntarily, body unwilling to accept that they just got interrupted. Spencer's eyes are every deer-in-headlights cliché. Bogart barks again and Brendon knows it's only a matter of time before Hobo wakes up too.   
  
"Bren, we can't- not now-" Spencer whispers desperately, and he's pushing Brendon away, scrambling backwards. He's still hard,  _jesus,_  flushed and gorgeous, Brendon still  _wants,_  but he has no choice but to follow, avert his eyes as Spencer hops into his boxers and holds his shirt over his crotch. Brendon's skin, blazing and buzzing a second before, feels bare, bereft.   
  
"Night," Spencer whispers, and he's darting up the stairs and inside before Brendon can respond. The dogs are quiet within a moment. Brendon's still standing and staring and shaking. He braces himself against the side of the porch and looks down, almost as an afterthought, wraps a hand around his cock and pulls maybe twice before he's coming without a sound.   
  
"Shit," he whispers. He walks carefully up the stairs, pulls on his sweatpants. He can see the trail of wet footprints where Spencer came inside, but there's no sign of him. The dogs are fighting happily over a bone.   
  
 _Not now,_  Spencer said. So maybe?   
  
He collapses into bed, runs a finger absently over still-swollen lips, and falls asleep in seconds. 


	3. (3/5)

_Brendon shifts slightly so that the rusted metal presses into a less soft spot on his back. He picks at a fraying thread at Ryan’s knee.  
  
“Few months you’ll be able to get a real apartment,” Ryan says, long line of his throat glowing in the yellow light of the streetlamp as he leans back on the railing of the fire escape.   
  
“Nah, I won’t need one. We’ll be on a tour bus,” Brendon says, grinning. The spring air is warm and dry and for the first time, he can see an end to the ramen dinners and the broken faucet and the fucking futon. It still isn’t real, the idea of a  **record**.   
  
“Tarah’s gonna hear her song on the radio,” Ryan smirks, no real venom left when he says her name. Brendon just rolls his eyes.   
  
“Thanks,” he says softly. It’s been stewing inside him for months now and he doesn’t know anything better to say than that one stupid word. He hopes Ryan knows what he means.   
  
“It’s all you,” Ryan tells the sky, and Brendon can see his throat work. “It never would’ve happened without you. You…I mean. You never needed me. Your voice, you would’ve made it with anyone.”   
  
“Wouldn’t want to make it with anyone,” Brendon mumbles, and he looks to his lap and scratches his ear but god, is it the truth.   
  
“We should go inside,” Ryan says, and Brendon can hear his smile. He stands up just as Ryan leans past him to open the window, and they’re close enough that he can feel the heat of Ryan’s skin.   
  
It’s been months and Brendon usually doesn’t miss it. It was good while it lasted, fumbling through their questions on Brendon’s futon, heartbeats close in the oppressive darkness of the apartment. And when Ryan decided that was all it was to him, experimentation, Brendon nodded and shrugged and came out to the rest of the band and put the crush behind him. It’s over, now, and he usually doesn’t miss it.   
  
But it’s Ryan who slides one hand onto Brendon’s hip, calluses scraping over one hipbone, and leans in close. It’s Ryan who kisses him, soft and sweet, and Brendon understands. For them, this is easier than words, always has been. And when Ryan pulls away and smiles, Brendon smiles back and steps through the window and lets it go._   
  
  


. . .

  
  
  
Ryan raises a hand in greeting when Brendon stumbles into the kitchen the next morning. Spencer isn't there, and the bottom drops out of Brendon's stomach. He's not sure whether it's relief or disappointment.  
  
"Spencer's out getting groceries. I thought maybe we could work on some songs?" Ryan says hopefully. Brendon smiles and nods. He wants to show Ryan the quick little melody he came up with the other day. They settle in the living room after breakfast.   
  
"I wrote something the other day," Brendon volunteers as Ryan tunes up. He plays, watching Ryan's face instead of his own fingers, sees the quick surge of - what is it? anger? - before Ryan calms his features again, back into the old blank mask. Brendon finishes and waits.   
  
"It's- good," Ryan says, with what's probably meant to be an encouraging smile. Brendon smiles cautiously back.   
  
Okay. That was weird.   
  
"How about you? You and Jon were working on some stuff, right?"   
  
Ryan launches into a weird, jangly little tune, complete with bizarre metaphorical lyrics. He waits expectantly when he's done.   
  
"Uh- cool. It's different," Brendon volunteers. He wants to roll his eyes and make some crack about Ryan forgetting who their singer is, but it feels too soon, somehow. Like it's imperative that they stay calm, fight the mess that's been threatening to break them apart since Ryan moved in. "Maybe we could fiddle with the vocal melody a little?"   
  
"I thought maybe I could sing this one, but if you want to, sure," Ryan says.  
  
When they wrote Pretty.Odd, Brendon had to spend a week convincing (cajoling, yelling at, threatening, begging) Ryan to sing even the smallest bit of Mad As Rabbits. He loosened up as they wrote the rest of the songs, yeah, but. But.   
  
Not to mention the part where normally, they'd be yelling at each other by now. In Maryland it was an hourly occurrence, Brendon pushing and Ryan pushing right back, bickering happily over a note or a word, until it ended in laughter and a damn good song. Now, it's too fucking polite. And yet Brendon's sure it would be worse, a thousand times worse, if they yelled.  
  
"Ryan, I got your stupid frilly cookies," Spencer calls from the hallway. Brendon feels guilty that the slam of the door is such a relief.   
  
"Ooh," Ryan says, hilariously perky, and bolts for the kitchen.   
  
Spencer, having apparently handed off the shopping bag, is twisting his hands together as he sits down next to Brendon. "What's up?" he says quietly. Brendon shivers, remembering the feel of those hands.   
  
"We tried to write. It was weird. Polite," Brendon mutters. He can see the faintest edge of a bruise under Spencer's collar. There's a too-long silence.   
  
"I guess things are gonna be weird for a little while," Spencer says.   
  
"Not between-" Brendon blurts.   
  
"No, not- no. Sorry. Not what I meant." Spencer's smile looks genuine, but Brendon feels too wrong-footed to be sure.   
  
"No, good. I mean, we can't-" Brendon trails off. He doesn't know if he wants to finish that sentence. Spencer's shaking his head when Ryan comes around the corner and plops down between them.   
  
"Mmmm," he says happily, and holds out the cookie tin to Brendon. Spencer's smirking. Brendon can't help but meet his eye and laugh.   
  
They take the dogs to the park for the afternoon. It's nice, nearly normal, watching Ryan wrinkle his nose fussily as he cleans up after Hobo while Spencer teases Brendon for fitting right in with the five-year-olds. Brendon doesn't think his outfit merits  _that_  much ridicule, but he goes with it.   
  
He wonders what he would've said if he'd finished his sentence.  _We can't right now, not with things the way they are._  Or,  _we can't fuck up our friendship._  Or,  _we can't pretend like things are normal because I can't stop thinking about you._  Probably not the latter. It could've been the moonlight, the fact that they were fucking  _naked_ , plain old horniness. Come to think of it, he's pretty sure Spencer hadn't gotten laid since he broke up with Haley, so.   
  
He decides not to think about it too much.   
  
They grill burgers out on the porch and watch a couple old episodes of Entourage before Ryan decides to go to sleep.   
  
"We calling it in too?" Brendon asks Spencer sleepily.   
  
"Yeah, think so. Had some trouble sleeping last night," Spencer deadpans. Brendon blushes.  
  
"The dogs were barking really late, it sounded like there was something in the pool," Ryan says, clueless, and yawns before heading for the guest room. Behind him, Spencer smirks at Brendon and Brendon looks at his feet.  
  
"I'll just, uh-" Brendon says, and goes to the TV to get out the DVD.   
  
When he turns around, Spencer's eyes are locked unashamedly on his ass.   
  
"Stop teasing me," he says when he looks back up at Brendon, and there's the vaguest hint of a smile there.   
  
"But- I- We- I thought-" Brendon stutters. What the fuck was that supposed to mean? Seriously.   
  
Spencer chews at his lip for a second. "Just because we can't...I can't help it," he says matter-of-factly. "But, you know. Ryan."   
  
Brendon is maybe very tired and very distracted; Spencer's still worrying at his bottom lip, and Brendon wants it to be his teeth there instead, and fuck is he confused.   
  
"Right, okay," he says, staring.   
  
"I mean, you know I-" Spencer trails off, shakes his head abruptly. "Bedtime. 'Night, Bren."   
  
  


. . .

  
  
  
_There's nothing of his crush on Ryan when Audrey sidles up to him and smiles. He's not weak in the knees and he's not instantly hard when she hooks a finger in his belt loop, but something about her catches his attention, the perfect white of her skin against the turquoise in her hair, the sparkle of her giggle as she presses a kiss to his cheek. Before he knows it she's spread out beneath him in the back lounge, whimpering and salty-sweet under his tongue.  
  
"Harder," she pants, and Brendon tries, he really does, but it's dark and she's a  **girl**  and everything's slippery and too close together and he really has no idea what he's doing, if he's being honest with himself. He slides two fingers into her and her thighs are trembling, and okay, that sounded good.   
  
"I- did you- are you okay?" he asks shyly, and she's giggling breathlessly and pushing him onto his back, sucking him down in one long movement, and it's been so long, not since Ryan, and Brendon's gone before she's even gotten a hand around the base.   
  
She spits into his shirt before he recovers enough to tell her not to.   
  
"What time is it?" she says idly, casting around for her shirt on the ground.   
  
"Uh," is all Brendon can manage.   
  
"Late. I gotta go."   
  
"You could- you could stay?" he suggests, because it doesn't feel right to send her away. She turns and looks at him, really looks, maybe for the first time that night.   
  
"You're sweet," she says, like it's a surprise. He shrugs. Is he not supposed to be?  
  
"Sorry," he ends up saying. She smiles, bright and not-quite-mocking.   
  
"I'll call you," she promises, and then she's hopping into her miniskirt and finger-combing her hair.   
  
"Let me walk you out?" Brendon says. She just shrugs and sweeps out the door ahead of him. He catches up while he's still buttoning his jeans, flushing as he realizes Spencer's in the front, eating a bowl of cereal and determinedly not looking at either of them.   
  
He kisses her on the cheek outside the bus and she laughs again and waves over her shoulder. He thinks he'll call her.   
  
Spencer doesn't look up when Brendon sits down next to him.   
  
"You woke me up," he explains a little sheepishly, and Brendon notices how red his ears are. He opens his mouth to apologize. "I thought you were gay," Spencer says, and Brendon shuts his mouth again.   
  
"I guess-" Brendon pauses for a second. He doesn't quite know what to say. "She's- Well. I'm not coming out for a few years at least. And-" He doesn't know how to put it. "I like looking at her." Spencer raises one very expressive eyebrow. He looks vaguely pissed off. Brendon just shrugs.  
  
"Okay," Spencer says coolly.   
  
"I don't- I don't really know what I'm doing with her," Brendon confesses. "I mean. It's not like a dick." Spencer stares disbelievingly for a second before laughing. Brendon punches him. "No, seriously," he whines. "What the fuck are you supposed to do? I put my fingers," he makes a stupid little gesture, blushing crimson because he can't figure out what word to use, and Spencer snorts. "Help," Brendon finishes pathetically.   
  
"I- uh," Spencer mumbles, and now he's the one blushing. "I've never. Uh."  
  
"Really?" Brendon squawks. Spencer wrinkles his nose and flicks his spoon so sugary milk from the cereal end up on Brendon's forehead. Brendon flips him off. "No, seriously though, what the fuck?"   
  
"They were never really interested after they met Ryan," Spencer says dully. "I- yeah. Who wants the fat friend, right?" There's a decade of embarrassment in it.   
  
"I, uh-" he clears his throat. "Spence, you're-" He can't say it. "Just shut up. Anyway, I bet I've had way worse luck with girls that you have."   
  
"Yeah, I bet you have," Spencer grins.   
  
"I mean, I've never- only to-" he stops short. He never figured out if Ryan told Spencer.   
  
"I know," Spencer says softly, and Brendon might be imagining the bitterness. He decides to ignore it, leaning against Spencer's side, breathing in the flowery smell of the shampoo he uses even though his sisters don't buy it for him anymore. It's comfortable. He's maybe a little glad Spencer has the extra padding, though he'd never admit it. He wonders why being with Audrey can't be this easy.   
  
"Ugh, girls. So do I call her, or wait for her to call me?"   
  
"Beats me," Spencer says. He strokes Brendon's hair gently and sighs._   
  
  


. . .

  
  
  
The next few days are...weird. There are moments where everything feels like it used to, flicking Cheetos at each other as they watch Star Wars, playing fetch with the dogs. But other times it's noticeably strained. Ryan ducks into his room whenever Greenwald calls. He's twitchy when they stay in, staring darkly at the clock and jiggling one foot like he wishes he were somewhere else. He goes out with Pete one night and comes back looking unsettled, uneasy. Brendon doesn't know what to say to him.   
  
Spencer... Spencer's something else altogether. It's not awkward between them, not at all. If anything, there's a new dimension to their friendship - although dimension maybe isn't the right word.  _Tension so thick it makes Brendon want to jump out of his skin_  is probably better. They don't talk about what happened, but it's there in every moment they're together, in every sly little smile Spencer shoots him and every bump of their hips when they're cooking together. Spencer stares at him shamelessly, eyes fixed on Brendon's ass whenever he bends down or his lips whenever they're talking, all with this knowing little smile that drives Brendon crazy.   
  
Brendon  _wants_  like he's never wanted anyone before. Spencer scrubs a hand through his hair and Brendon wants to pull it, force his head back and expose his throat and nip into that pale soft skin. Spencer wanders into the kitchen in the morning, pajama pants hanging low on his hips, and Brendon wants to yank them down the rest of the way and beg Spencer to fuck his mouth. One day, Spencer's bossily informing Ryan that Hobo is his dog and therefore his mess, voice snapping and hips cocked, and Brendon's dizzy with how fast he's hard, imagining Spencer pinning his wrists above his head and whispering in that same self-assured voice.   
  
It's torture. No other way to put it. He knows it's unavoidable, it's not a  _maybe_ , it's a  _someday._  But Brendon wants  _now._  It's almost like Spencer's enjoying himself. One day, when Ryan's sleeping in, Spencer corners Brendon in the kitchen, pressing close so that they're barely an inch apart, dark, hungry eyes staring at Brendon's mouth, and then he reaches one hand over Brendon's head to grab a coffee mug. Brendon isn't proud to admit that he whimpers when Spencer pulls away, smiling wickedly. And how,  _how_  the hell did this happen? This is  _Spencer._  And yet...that's not really a good argument, even in Brendon's head.   
  
Even with all that, the part Brendon dreads is writing. He and Ryan have decided to try for an hour every day, whether in the living room or the music room, and it hasn't gotten better since they first tried. They're just missing each other somewhere along the line. It's not that they disagree about the songs, exactly. But maybe that's the problem. They're too polite. It feels jangly and wrong, a thin veneer barely covering the dissent they used to be so comfortable with.   
  
They record a few rough demos on Garage Band and send them to Jon. He calls the next day, and Ryan puts him on speakerphone and calls Spencer into the kitchen.   
  
"What up, homeslice," he drawls. Brendon can practically smell the smoke from where he's sitting.   
  
"We're good," Ryan grins back. "How's Chicago?"   
  
"Not as fun as your mom. I liked the songs."   
  
"Yeah? Which ones? You should add some bass maybe and send them back," Spencer says.   
  
"Yup. Uh, I think it was called Ryan Wishes He Was British. Nice title, by the way. We should call it that on the album."   
  
"Thanks," Brendon smiles, but his stomach is sinking. That was his least favorite of all of them, some weird Kooks-y ripoff that sounds nothing like anything they've written before.   
  
"Wha- oh. Fuck off, Tommy, go suck a dick, maybe that'll shut you up," Jon's saying in the background. Brendon hears someone else yell something. "Sorry, I gotta go, peace out," Jon laughs into the phone, and then he's gone.   
  
"Cool," Ryan says smugly as he hangs up.   
  
"So are we going out to that movie? We should get going," Spencer reminds them.   
  
"Be out in a few, bathroom," Ryan says, and Brendon and Spencer head for the car.   
  
"I hate that song," Spencer says under his breath, and jerks the key in the ignition a little harder than necessary.   
  
"Me too," Brendon confesses. They exchange a worried glance, and then Ryan's hurrying down the front steps.   
  
Brendon and Spencer manage to get accosted in the snack line for autographs, and by the time they've finished signing a girl's Hello Kitty purse, Ryan's back with the tickets.   
  
"Isn't the box office that way?" Spencer asks bemusedly, jerking a thumb at the line. Brendon looks where Ryan came from and just sees the bathrooms.   
  
"I, uh. Snuck around you. Didn't feel like signing shit," Ryan mutters, and hands them their tickets. "Let's go, it started five minutes ago."   
  
"Aww, fuck, we missed trailers," Spencer pouts.   
  
Much to Spencer's delight, there are still a couple trailers left by the time they find seats. Brendon slurps at his cherry Slushie and settles back happily to wait for the explosions.   
  
Halfway through, Ryan gets up to go to the bathroom. Spencer leans over and whispers, "I can't stop staring at your mouth." Brendon blushes. He turns his head to look at Spencer, but his eyes are on the screen again, a tiny smirk illuminated in the flickering light. Even when Ryan comes back and starts jiggling his foot so hard Brendon's chair shakes, he can't focus on anything. He keeps hearing Spencer's low, throaty voice in his ear.   
  
What. The actual.  _Fuck._  
  
They go for pizza after the movie, Brendon and Spencer dissecting the plot with all the enthusiasm of former comic geeks.   
  
“No, I didn't really think the giant blue dick was necessary, though. I'll have a veggie, please."   
  
"Brendon thinks a dick is unnecessary? Wow. Pepperoni, thanks," Spencer snarks. "Ry?"   
  
"Not hungry," Ryan says absently. "I'll grab us a table."   
  
Brendon goes with him and watches as Ryan methodically shreds a paper napkin. "What'd you think?" he asks eventually, since Ryan seems wholly absorbed in his task.   
  
"Movie? It was good, special effects were awesome, I thought the character development was a little weak though," Ryan rattles off, still staring at his hands.   
  
"Dude, are you okay?" Brendon asks. Ryan looks flushed.   
  
"I think I'm coming down with something," Ryan says, and then Brendon's distracted by the arrival of Spencer with his pizza.   
  
  


. . .

  
  
  
"Ross, what the fuck are you doing in my kitchen?" Brendon says, rubbing sleep from his eyes. Ryan seems to be wrestling with Brendon's mixer, the one his mom bought him as a well-intentioned housewarming gift and that Brendon's never touched.   
  
"Cookies," Ryan pants, and gives a mighty pull. The bowl snaps into place. He pumps a fist in the air victoriously, and Brendon is reminded yet again what an immense failboat Ryan Ross can be. Still, Ryan seems more like his old self than he has in ages. Brendon's willing to do just about anything to humor him.  
  
"You. Are trying to make homemade cookies?" Brendon states.   
  
"I made the cookies," Ryan says defensively, and gestures toward a tray of unbaked cookies. There's also a Pillsbury wrapper sitting nearby, so Brendon's mollified, assured that all is in fact right with the universe, until Ryan says, "Now I just need frosting."   
  
"Okay," Brendon says slowly.   
  
"Where do you keep your food coloring?" Ryan huffs, now fighting with the mixing attachment.   
  
"Pantry. If I have any? I might, actually. Twist, you idiot."   
  
They end up making the icing side by side, Brendon figuring it's as good a breakfast as any. It's a fairly epic effort. Ryan's determined to make the cookie-decorating into some sort of art project, apparently, because he insists on six different colors of frosting.   
  
"I think the purple needs a little more red in it," he muses, staring into the bowl.   
  
"Your mom needs a little more red in her," Brendon mutters. Ryan, quick as a flash, dips one long finger into the green bowl and swipes it down Brendon's cheek. Brendon splutters for a second, but he can't help smiling. This finally feels like progress, rebuilding, a return to the friendship he and Ryan used to have.   
  
"S'what you get," Ryan sing-songs, when Brendon whaps him on the arm with a dishtowel.   
  
"Oh, it is on," Brendon promises, and smears a handful of pink icing down the front of Ryan's...apron. For fuck's sake, Ryan is wearing an apron. Ryan retaliates by grabbing the blue bowl and retreating behind a chair to fling gobs of icing at Brendon's head, while he tries to shelter behind the towel and shakes the bottle of sprinkles menacingly in Ryan's direction.   
  
"Hah," Ryan shouts, and a handful of icing hits Brendon square in the mouth.   
  
"Nice aim," Spencer says dryly from the doorway.   
  
"Spence! Help!" Brendon says, and darts behind him.   
  
"Hell no."   
  
"He's vicious!" Brendon pleads, cackling, and before he can say "I told you so," a dollop of yellow lands right on Spencer's bare chest. Brendon can't breathe from laughing.   
  
"Hell no," Spencer says again, rasing one deadly eyebrow, and then he's grabbing the bowls of red and orange and dumping them both simultaneously on Ryan's head. Brendon's literally rolling on the floor. "You look good enough to eat," Spencer smirks, topping off his work with a bottle of sprinkles. Ryan, out of ammo, surrenders with a disbelieving look in the reflective front of the microwave.   
  
"You ass," he mutters, and combs the worst out with his hands.   
  
"Good icing though," Brendon giggles, licking one of his fingers.   
  
"I have to go shower again," Ryan says mournfully, and stalks off muttering something about revenge. Brendon stands up and looks around at his kitchen. There are vibrant splashes of sugar everywhere. Whatever. So, so worth the cleanup.   
  
"So very mature," Spencer chuckles. Brendon shrugs and beams at Spencer, and Spencer grins back. Brendon knows he's thinking the same thing, that maybe things with Ryan will be okay.   
  
"You've got a-" he smiles, pointing at Spencer's chest. Spencer grabs his wrist and lifts it to his lips, and Brendon's words die in his throat as Spencer licks slowly up one finger.   
  
"You look good enough to eat, too," Spencer grins, catlike, and sucks Brendon's pinky into his mouth, swirling his tongue around the first knuckle.   
  
"I kind of hate you right now," Brendon breathes. He's trying with every bit of willpower he possesses not to let his imagination run wild, but,  _hello_. Spencer grins, sucks once at Brendon's finger, and lets it go with a wet, obscene noise. He turns to go without another word and Brendon's left standing in his kitchen, covered in icing and unbearably hard.   
  
  


. . .

  
  
  
They all convene by the pool when they're cleaned up, Brendon having jerked off unceremoniously before swiping himself down with an old towel. Brendon leaves the kitchen for later and brings his cereal out to the porch, settling down on the chaises with Ryan and trying not to watch too closely as Spencer swims a couple laps.   
  
"Dude, it's fucking hot, get off," Ryan grimaces, and deposits Hobo back on the ground.   
  
"Why don't you go in the pool, then, dumbass."   
  
"Don't feel like it." Ryan settles back and opens a book. Between the bug-eyed sunglasses and the glass of lemonade, he looks like your average Hollywood starlet, except a hell of a lot paler. Brendon giggles to himself at the thought. Ryan's more of a diva than any of them, he'd bet. He realizes he's staring fondly, too happy to care, when Ryan peers down over the rims of his sunglasses and asks, "What? Do I still have icing in my hair?"   
  
"Nah," Brendon grins. "I'm just glad you're better."   
  
He realizes, when Ryan's lips go thin and dangerous, that it maybe wasn't the most tactful way to say it. "Better?" Ryan monotones.   
  
"Y'know-" Brendon waves his hand around awkwardly. "You're you again. Not all weird about Keltie. Well, not-"   
  
"I was always  _me_ , what are you talking about," Ryan says acidly.   
  
"I dunno, you were upset, I was worried, forget it," Brendon mutters, and reaches for his Marlboros.   
  
"I don't need you  _worrying_  about me," Ryan hisses.   
  
"That's not it," he says feebly.   
  
"Whatever. I'm not a kid, I can deal with it myself," Ryan snarls, and settles his book in his lap again with an air of finality.   
  
"Sorry," Brendon whispers. He takes a deep drag on his cigarette and clenches his jaw.   
  
Fuck.   
  
“It's hot,” Ryan repeats after a long silence, and looks down at the pool, considering.   
  
Brendon finishes smoking and pads down to the water, settling himself on a raft and watching Spencer play fetch with Hobo. It's almost too hot, barely even spring now and he's already sweating in the sun. Fucking L.A. Ryan gives in and joins them, rolling his pants up so he can swing his feet in the water. Brendon smiles at him cautiously.   
  
"I love her tail," Spencer laughs, holding Hobo stationary as she tries to swim to safety. Her tail's bobbing frantically back and forth like a rudder.   
  
"Let her go," Brendon says, smacking Spencer lightly on the shoulder from his spot on the raft. "Bully." Spencer rolls his eyes and Hobo paddles to the steps, shaking herself off prissily in a manner reminiscent of her owner.   
  
"Ryan, come in, the water's perfect," Spencer calls to the side. Ryan lets out a curl of smoke from his Camel Light and shakes his head. Brendon and Spencer exchange a glance.   
  
They circle around casually, slowly, so Ryan doesn't notice until they're each grabbing a leg. His eyes widen comically, long limbs flailing out, and then he lands in the pool with a resounding splash, while Spencer and Brendon high-five over his submerged head.   
  
"Assholes," Ryan splutters when he emerges, and it's more vehement than Brendon had expected. He darts away, waiting for revenge, but Ryan just wades toward the steps. Spencer mutters something that sounds like "little bitch." Brendon stares at Ryan's ribs, highlighted by the wet cling of his t-shirt.   
  
"I'm gonna go change," Ryan calls angrily, wringing water from his shirt and stalking away.   
  
It's just Brendon and Spencer in the pool now, and Brendon's vibrantly aware of what happened last time they were here together. Spencer's watching him like he's remembering too, lips curled up, predatory and dangerous. Brendon's breath catches in his throat.   
  
"I, uh- beer," he says shakily, and practically runs out of the pool.   
  
He goes to the bathroom first, then figures he'll ask if Ryan wants a beer too, as a conciliatory gesture. He knocks once and doesn't bother waiting for an answer before barging in.   
  
"Ryan, you want-" he starts, and stops short.   
  
Ryan's leaning over the dresser, shirtless, wet pants dripping onto the carpet. In front of him are two messy lines of white powder. The rolled-up bill is lifted halfway, and his eyes are big, shocked moons. Brendon can't breathe.   
  
"What-" he gasps. "What the-"   
  
"Don't start again," Ryan says, bored almost, and his face is expertly blank again. He sets down the dollar bill and turns to face Brendon with his arms crossed.   
  
"I thought-" Brendon says numbly.   
  
"You don't get to fucking lecture me, it's nothing you haven't done," Ryan says, with that same eerie calm.   
  
"At  _parties,_  Ryan, not in private, not alone." Brendon can see himself in the mirror, pale and determined-looking. He's proud of himself for not letting his voice shake. His stomach is swooping, head spinning. The past week... he thought... he remembers: bathroom breaks, the flushed cheeks, the lack of  _appetite_ , Jesus, was Brendon  _blind?_  A cold. He'd believed it was a  _cold._  
  
"Bren, where-" he hears, and Spencer's peering through the door behind him. Brendon closes his eyes.   
  
 _No. Nonononono._  
  
"What the fuck," Spencer's saying, flat and disbelieving. Ryan is silent.   
  
"Ryan, I thought-" Brendon says. He doesn't know what to think. He's not thinking.   
  
"It's none of your business," Ryan mumbles, and if he tries, Brendon can almost hear what would be shame in anyone else. He opens his eyes and Ryan's got his back against the dresser, drops of water still trailing down his too-thin chest, bumping down the mountains and valleys of his ribcage. His arms are limp at his sides, palms facing Brendon and Spencer, the closest to a plea Brendon knows he'll get.   
  
"It is," he whispers. "It is our business. We care about you."   
  
"Leave me the fuck alone, I'm a fucking grownup. I can make my own fucking choices," Ryan spits.   
  
"No, not like this, Ryan, you- I can't-" Spencer says thinly.   
  
"Fuck you."   
  
"Ryan, you always said-"  
  
"What? What did I always say?" His voice is hushed, but  _venomous._  Brendon wants to rewind, wants to tell Spencer  _no, don't,_  because he knows what's coming.   
  
"You said you would never be like him," Spencer says. It's barely there, quiet and shocked from bloodless lips. Brendon braces himself.   
  
"Fuck you, I'm nothing like him," Ryan snarls, fists bunched at his sides, eyes  _dead._  
  
"You are, you keep pushing us away, and- Look at yourself," Spencer says shakily. "It's- I don't recognize you any more. What  _happened?_ "  
  
Brendon wants to close his eyes again, but can't. He can see something crumbling right in front of him, years of friendship falling to little shattered pieces and going up in flames, and  _this can't be happening._  
  
"Spencer, I don't need you to take care of me any more." Spencer physically flinches, recoils. Ryan might as well have punched him. He continues, voice as flat as ever, "This is me. This is how it's gonna be, and you don't have to like it. But you can't do this without me. We need to write an album, and then I'll move back to my house and you won't have to deal with me any more."   
  
Brendon can see the glassiness in Spencer's eyes, and  _no,_  this isn't  _okay._  
  
"Ryan," Spencer chokes, "We're not  _dealing_  with you, we fucking  _love_  you. Family, remember? I can't- you're right, we can't do this without you, but we need  _you,_  c'mon, you can't just-"   
  
"Fucking- Stop telling me what I can't! Jesus, you have such a fucking God complex. For as long as I can remember you've been telling me what to do, just fucking  _stop it!_ " Ryan's screaming, full-out screaming, face red. "God, I don't fucking- I know, okay, I  _know_  you fucking blamed me for what happened with Keltie, don't fucking pretend! I see the way you look at me like- like I'm some kind of- like you  _pity_  me, and just- I don't need you, I don't need your fucking advice!"   
  
"Ryan, we-" Brendon stutters. Ryan rounds on him, bare chest heaving.   
  
"And don't you start.  _We._  We think this, we think that, fuck you both, I know you talk about me," he spits. "And Brendon, you're even worse of a fuck-up than I am, don't even pretend. Can't keep a relationship to save your life, biggest closet case I've ever met, you've done just as many drugs as I have, and if it wasn't for me you'd probably be on your  _mission_  right about now, so-"   
  
"Leave him the fuck alone," Spencer cuts in sharply. Ryan opens his mouth as if to argue, but Spencer says again, "Leave him alone." He's shaking, Brendon can see it, but his voice is strong.   
  
"No. You guys say you're my friends but I see you, I see the way you watch me and talk about me and I don't need it, I don't fucking need it, I have other friends, I have people who won't fucking judge me,  _Alex_  didn't bitch me out for the Keltie thing-"  
  
"We're not  _judging_  you, Ryan, for fuck's sake, we care, we want to know why you did it, Greenwald-" Spencer trails off, shrugging helplessly.  
  
"He never heard you talk about your dad, the way you used to promise you'd never drink and you'd never cheat and- and you'd be different, and...what happened?" Brendon asks, pleads, softly. He can see Ryan's face crumple, moving for the first time into something beyond blind rage, something shocked and vulnerable and terrified.   
  
And then it's gone. "Fuck you. Nothing happened. People change," Ryan says flatly. He whips around, picks up the rolled bill from the dresser and, before Brendon can move to stop him, snorts the two lines that are still lying there, back stiff. He turns around, wiping his nose defiantly, and says, "I'm going out and I need to change. Do you mind?"   
  
Brendon  _minds._  He wants to  _fix_  this, and yet he can't find any more words, can't begin to imagine how this could ever be fixed. Spencer moves robotically toward the hall and Brendon follows without thinking. Ryan closes the door behind them.   
  
"What-" he starts.   
  
"I don't-" Spencer stutters. They stare at each other, lost for words, and Brendon can feel his heart thudding along, slow and heavy. It's only a few seconds before the door opens behind them again and Ryan stalks past them without a backwards glance. Spencer winces as the front door slams.   
  
"Fuck, Spence, I can't-" Brendon's chin is wobbling and he doesn't know what to do and what is there  _to_  do and Spencer, Spencer's looking younger than Brendon's ever seen him, lost and shell-shocked and shaking and Brendon  _doesn't know what to do._  
  
"I-" Spencer gasps, and he shudders, spins around, and walks stiffly to the bathroom. Brendon stares and, after a second, follows.   
  
The door is locked when he tries it. He knocks, but there's no answer, just a sob, quickly silenced.   
  
"Spence?" he calls. No answer. He slumps down to rest his back against the door, and he waits.   
  
He's never seen Spencer cry. He can hear it now, little bitten-off gasps that make his chest ache.  
  
"It'll be okay, y'know," Brendon says, just so Spencer knows he's there. "It'll be okay. Every band has rough patches, right? And...he'll be fine. This is his dream, this is- this is what he wants more than anything. He won't mess it up. He's just a little...confused. It'll be okay." It sounds feeble even to his own ears. He presses on. "We'll call Pete. I mean, Ryan's not the only one who's allowed to talk to Pete." He forces a laugh. "He'll know what to do. He...Ryan will listen to him. Remember Ryan's little Fall Out Boy shirt? He worships the ground Pete walks on. Pete can convince him, it- it'll be okay."   
  
He remembers the first week in his apartment, huddled by himself against the wall, hugging himself for protection against the suffocating silence. He used to repeat it like a mantra:  _I'm okay._  He'd whisper it into the dark sometimes, fierce and stubborn, and when Mrs. Smith asked him how it was, if he needed anything, he said it again with the brightest smile he could muster.   
  
He told William, maybe the second week of Truckstops and Statelines. He closed his eyes and leaned into William's hand in his hair and confessed it all, how scared he'd been, how many times he wanted to crawl back home.  
  
"You're pretty amazing," William had whispered, half-asleep. "Not many people can hold themselves together like that."  
  
He's never felt amazing. Sometimes he thinks it's blind optimism, sometimes he thinks it's stubborn bravery. Right now, it just feels like lying.   
  
He takes a deep breath and tries harder.   
  
"We'll get him into rehab," he says, and he tilts his head back against the door and closes his eyes. "We'll finish the album and then he'll go to rehab. He needs help, but- but, I mean, every band goes through this, right? Look at Gabe, he's still going strong. Keith Richards. It's just- we can make it through. It'll be okay."   
  
There's no response from the other side of the door, other than a barely-there, muffled whimper.   
  
Brendon remembers how jealous he used to be. Or...not jealous, maybe. Something deeper. He played his guitar and they just looked at each other, amber on blue, and Spencer quirked his eyebrow and Ryan half-smiled, and they told him he was in. He wasn't  _in,_  not exactly, not for a while. Not like they were. Brendon wanted, more than anything, to have someone who could read his thoughts like that.   
  
"I'm here, y'know," he says softly. "I'm here. Forever. Promise. Whatever happens, whatever Ryan- whatever happens. You've still got me. And I know- I know I'm not him, we didn't share crayons in Kindergarten, but I- I'm here."  
  
He can feel his heart pounding. There's something cold gripping his chest.  
  
"You didn't do anything wrong," he says. "Can you hear me? Spencer, please, I- you didn't do anything wrong. It's- it's not your fault, none of this is your fault. I don't know- you're incredible, we never would have made it this far without you, me or Ryan, god, you just- I wish you knew. You're the most generous person I know. You give- god. Everything. And I can't-"   
  
He falls backward as the door opens without warning, but Spencer's there, grabbing his hands and pulling him up till they're chest to chest. Spencer's wrecked, eyes red-rimmed and wild, tears still wet on his cheeks, and he's gripping Brendon's biceps like he'll fall down if he doesn't. He takes a deep, shivery breath, rests their foreheads together. "Thank you."   
  
Brendon leans forward and brushes his lips gently, ever so gently, against Spencer's neck. He takes a deep breath and lets the tears fall and hugs Spencer as tightly as he can, bone-crushing and desperate, and together, they breathe.   
  
  


. . .

  
  
  
_Brendon stares at the marks, the red lips, the way Ryan won't quite look him in the eye.  
  
“What about-” he starts, and Ryan cuts him off with a snap.   
  
“Don't. Please. Don't.”   
  
Brendon shouldn't talk. He's spent the past few months getting head from most of the crew and a different girl at every venue. He's single, though. It's different.  
  
“Jon's here, I was just about to get popcorn,” Brendon says softly, and jerks his thumb toward the back lounge. Ryan nods stiffly.   
  
Spencer's on the Academy bus, escaping from the stress-fest that is Panic these days, and Brent's in his bunk. It's only the two of them when Brendon heads back into the lounge: Ryan and Jon are both cross-legged, knee to knee.   
  
“S'okay. You've got to forgive yourself, though. People get lonely on tour. It's not nice, but it happens,” Jon is saying, and Brendon can see Ryan smile.   
  
“Thanks,” Ryan whispers, and turns to the door. “Hey, Bren. Sorry I yelled.”   
  
“No problem,” Brendon grins, relieved. There's been enough tension on the bus lately. He and Jon arrange themselves on the couch with Ryan between them and they watch Cruel Intentions.   
  
Later, when they've both climbed into their bunks, Ryan whispers across the aisle. “Don't tell Spence, okay?”   
  
“He'll love you anyway,” Brendon replies. He doesn't get an answer. _   
  
  


. . .

  
  
  
They use the living room phone, to call Jon. Brendon's almost hoping for voicemail. If he doesn't have to say it out loud, if they ignore it and close their eyes and bury their heads in the sand, maybe this whole thing will go away.   
  
"Hey," Jon picks up on the second ring.   
  
"Hi. Are you- how's it going?" Spencer asks, trying for casual and sounding funereal.   
  
"Fine? What's up?"   
  
"Ryan," Spencer sighs. "It- Jon, he was doing coke. In the house. Not a party, nothing, just- there." There's a long silence on the other end. "So Brendon sees him, and there- we had this huge fight, I don't even know, he was just lashing out, said it was his decision, and- Jon, I honestly don't know what's going through his head right now."   
  
"Shit," Jon says succinctly.   
  
"Yeah, well. Yeah. He left. Says we're still going to do the album, but. We- we want him to go to rehab after. Will you talk to him? I don't know, he just won't listen to us right now. He listens to you," Spencer pleads.   
  
"Yeah, I'll try," Jon says softly. "Rehab, huh?"   
  
"Can't think of anything else."   
  
"I- yeah. I guess. I mean, it's not affecting his writing, though, right? The stuff he played me was great."   
  
Brendon and Spencer exchange a surprised glance. "Really?" Brendon pipes up.   
  
"Well, yeah. You didn't like it?" Jon sounds shocked.   
  
"It's not really my thing. But. Okay. I kind of just want us to make it through," Brendon confesses.   
  
"Yeah. We will," Jon says reassuringly. Brendon smiles shakily.   
  
"Thanks," Spencer says.   
  
"Of course. It- was it really that bad? You guys sound pretty shaken up."   
  
"Jon, I told him he was exactly like his father," Spencer says. He looks stricken. Brendon laces their fingers together and squeezes.   
  
"Whoa. I mean. Isn't that a bit harsh? Everyone- I mean. It's not like you guys haven't experimented with stuff. We all have," Jon muses.   
  
"No," Spencer says firmly. "Ryan- Ryan never wanted anything to do with it. He always said. This, it's against everything he used to want to be."   
  
Jon's silent for a while. "Yeah, I guess. I mean, I didn't really know him then. And maybe it's just that I've kind of seen it before, I've had a lot of friends do this. Carden's been addicted to painkillers for, what, like two years now? And they're doing fine. It's- it's not necessarily as big as it seems. People change."   
  
"Yeah, that's what he said," Brendon mutters.   
  
"Hey, look, Ryan's house is ready in what, like a week? So he'll go back to his place, we can all take a breather, and I'm staying with him for a while. And I promise, I'll see if I can talk to him. Or at least I'll be able to keep an eye on him," Jon assures him. "Listen, I've gotta go. You guys should call Pete, though, Ryan'll listen to him, too."   
  
"Yeah, that's a good idea," says Spencer dully. "Bye. Thanks."   
  
"Bye, guys," Jon says, and hangs up.  
  
Brendon sighs and buries his face in Spencer's shoulder. Spencer strokes his hair slowly.   
  
"I don't think he gets it," Spencer says softly.   
  
"How could he?" Brendon asks, muffled.   
  
"Yeah. Yeah, I guess. He was right though, we should call Pete."   
  
"Go for it."   
  
Spencer doesn't move for a second. He squeezes Brendon's hand and strokes his hair with the other hand, and he sighs before tapping out the number.   
  
"'Lo?" Pete answers.   
  
"It's Spencer. And Brendon."   
  
"Hi," Brendon pipes up, turning so he can talk into the phone. He keeps his head on Spencer's shoulder, though.   
  
"Hey, what's up?" Pete says. He sounds vaguely surprised, and Brendon doesn't blame him; it's usually Ryan who calls.  
  
"Ryan. He's- stuff's been going on with him lately."   
  
"So am I your friend or your boss right now?" Pete says lightly.   
  
"I-" Spencer looks to Brendon for confirmation. "Friend, I think. Trusted advisor, maybe?"   
  
"I can do that. Shoot. Down, Hemmy! Sorry. Fucking madhouse here, Ash's out."   
  
"So. I guess. He's been staying here. We're at Brendon's. And he's been doing a lot of stuff. Drugs. Drinking," Spencer explains.   
  
"Are we talking, like, crazy cabin shit, or the bad stuff?" Pete asks shrewdly.   
  
"Bad stuff is a good way to put it," Brendon puts in. "Coke. We thought it was just when he went out, but- it's not. And we just had a fight with him about it. It- it didn't go well, he's not really. Well. He left. He screamed. He didn't say he was going to stop."   
  
"Well, shit. Huh. I wondered why I wasn't hearing from him," Pete says.   
  
"Why- I mean. How does that make sense?" Spencer wonders.   
  
"Ryan, he- he calls me to talk about lyrics, or emo, or girls, or, like, a cloud that looks like a fish. He- well. He doesn't like feeling ashamed of himself. If he's done something stupid, I'm the last one to hear about it."   
  
Brendon's reminded, yet again, why it's not smart to underestimate Pete. He may be loud and occasionally obnoxious and often badly-dressed, but he's the most perceptive person Brendon knows. Spencer's looking at the phone, looking just as taken aback as Brendon feels.   
  
"So you think he knows he's being..." Spencer says slowly. "And he just doesn't want to talk to us cause he doesn't want to deal with himself?"   
  
"Yeah. Pretty much. He knows, all right," Pete mutters. "Little shithead. Let me guess, you guys want me to talk to him?"   
  
"Could you?" Brendon sighs.   
  
"We just- we don't know why he's doing it," Spencer says, chewing at his thumbnail.   
  
"Yeah," Pete muses. "I'll see what I can do. Everything else okay?"   
  
"There really isn't much else." Spencer's hand tightens on Brendon's again. It's all too true. It feels like the world has shrunk to the three of them.   
  
"I get it. No worries, okay? And if you ever need to get out, come on over. I think Travie's coming to stay for a while, we'll all hang out."   
  
"Will do. Let us know how it goes?" Brendon asks.   
  
"Yeah. All my love," Pete says, and they hear him yelling at Hemingway before the line goes dead.   
  
They put in a movie, but Brendon doesn't see it. He checks his phone every few minutes to see if Pete's texted or called, even though he has the ringer set to loud. The clock reads 6:17. That doesn't seem right.   
  
"We should eat dinner," Spencer mutters, once the credits are rolling.   
  
"I'm not really hungry," Brendon says. He thinks he'd puke if he tried to eat anything.   
  
"Me neither, but."   
  
"Yeah."   
  
Cooking is a distraction, at least. They turn on the radio and soundly abuse Sean Kingston for a while.   
  
"We should go surfing," Brendon remarks.   
  
"We?" Spencer says skeptically.   
  
"I'll teach you. I'm a good teacher," Brendon answers, with an attempt at a smile.   
  
"Yeah, you would be," Spencer nods, and his eyes are warm. Brendon blushes and turns hastily back to his carrots.   
  
They pick at their food. Spencer forces down a couple bites, but Brendon just can't. He texts Pete instead:  _howd it go?_  
  
Pete's response comes as they're clearing the table.  _not picking up. assface. dont worry tho._  
  
Brendon shows Spencer, who rolls his eyes and tightens his lips. "Let's go outside."   
  
They play fetch with the dogs for a while, until it's dark, and then watch another movie, killing time, glancing repeatedly at the door.   
  
"Honestly, I just want this day to be over," Brendon mumbles, and Spencer nods heavily.   
  
"Bed?" he asks. They head for the hallway.   
  
"Can I- I mean." Spencer gestures awkwardly at Brendon's door.   
  
"Yeah, I don't really want to be alone either," Brendon says softly. They strip off their jeans and settle close, Spencer pressed lightly against Brendon's back, his hand curled over Brendon's hip.   
  
  


. . .

  
  
  
He thinks he won't be able to sleep, but he must, at some point, because he wakes up later to the sound of the door slamming. He can feel Spencer twitch like he's going to get up. Brendon grasps his wrist gently and whispers, "Don't. He won't- not yet." He hates himself a little for it, but Spencer nods and settles back into the pillow.   
  
He wakes up again and Spencer's gone. Without thinking, he slips out of bed and pads to the hallway. The bathroom's dark. Brendon tiptoes into the kitchen. There's milk dripping over the edge of the counter, the glass still on its side, but Spencer's just standing there with a rag in one hand, hands braced against the counter, bare shoulders shaking.   
  
Brendon can feel the silent sobs when he wraps his arms around Spencer's waist from the back. He presses his cheek against cool skin and holds on.   
  
"You know what they say about crying over spilled milk," he mumbles, and Spencer chokes on a laugh. He smooths a thumb over Brendon's wristbone and Brendon can feel the muscles in his back loosen. He wonders how long Spencer's been out here.   
  
"Thanks," Spencer whispers.   
  
"You don't have to run away whenever you cry, y'know," Brendon says. He can feel Spencer stiffen again, then sigh.   
  
"I know. I'm not- I don't cry."   
  
Brendon doesn't bother pointing out that he clearly does.   
  
"I know. But...you take care of me often enough. My turn," he mutters instead, and Spencer squeezes his hand.   
  
"Thanks."   
  
  


. . .

  
  
  
"So have you thought about, y'know, if you and Ryan are still going to write?" Spencer says the next morning (afternoon, really) when Brendon pours himself a generous mug of coffee and sits down at the table.   
  
"I guess we have to," Brendon mumbles, and really, he hasn't been awake long enough to think about that.   
  
He takes the dogs out for their walk. Spencer's reading a drumming magazine on the couch when he comes back in, but he's barely hung up the leash by the door when he hears something that makes both of them freeze.   
  
"For fuck's sake, of course I know that!" It must be a shout, if they can hear it from here. "Pete, this is what I've wanted my entire life. No, it's not- I know what I want, okay?" The last few words get louder, and Ryan comes into view just as he's hanging up. He glares at the two of them and spits, "So now you're getting my boss to police me, too?" and then he's stomping out the door.   
  
"I guess you're not gonna get any writing done today," Spencer says guiltily. Brendon's phone buzzes.   
  
 _"there are only two tragedies in life: one is not getting what one wants, and the other is getting it."_  
  
 _be a little more cryptic_  Brendon texts back, while Spencer reads over his shoulder.   
  
"It's Oscar Wilde," Spencer says.   
  
"Still cryptic," Brendon retorts. His phone buzzes again.  
  
 _he might have to work this one out on his own. he's a little fucked in the head. give him some space, i think he'll come around eventually._  
  
"Well, fuck," Brendon mutters.  _so what do we do in the meantime?_  
  
 _play video games? idk dude, whatever you always do._  
  
Brendon looks to Spencer and shrugs.  _thx._  
  
 _ttyl._  
  
"So what now?" Spencer says softly.   
  
"We could write, I guess."   
  
Brendon feels guilty, almost, for how easy it is without Ryan. It shouldn't be. It should be like writing without one of his fingers. But... it's not. Spencer likes the same chord progressions as he does; clean, easy, easy-sounding. None of the twisty, spiky melodies Ryan's been so fond of lately. They spend the entire afternoon and most of the night in the music room, refining some of the things Brendon's been fiddling with, writing what could possibly be an entire song.   
  
Afterward, they curl up on the couch with a movie, and Brendon thinks guiltily about what Ryan will think.   
  
“I think I'm gonna go to sleep,” Spencer says, rubbing his eyes, and starts to get up. Brendon hesitates for a second.   
  
“No, hey," Brendon says heavily, and catches Spencer by the sleeve. "Stay with me again tonight?"   
  
Spencer nods. "Lemme go change," he says, and by the time he comes back to Brendon's room, Brendon's under the covers in boxers and an old shirt.   
  
"Nice sweatpants," Brendon smiles. They're ones Spencer hasn't worn in ages, blue with "Juicy" written across the butt in sloppy Sharpie, courtesy of Jon and Tom and a lot of weed.   
  
"Nice shirt," Spencer retorts as he wiggles under the covers, and Brendon realizes it's his.   
  
"Oops."   
  
"Oops, my ass. 'Night, Bren."


	4. (4/5)

He falls asleep easily and doesn't dream, and he has no idea how much later it is when a loud bump from the living room wakes him up.   
  
"I think it's Ryan," Spencer whispers groggily. There's another loud bump, definitely the sound of an inebriated body hitting furniture.   
  
"I'm gonna go check on him," Brendon mutters, and swings his legs out of the bed.   
  
Only the hallway light is on, and Ryan's sprawled out across the floor, having apparently tripped over the edge of the carpet. His long arms are flailing at the air, a sick caricature of an upturned turtle. Without asking, Brendon seizes one of his hands and hauls him upright, but when Ryan's eyes focus on him enough to realize who it is, he  _shoves,_  and Brendon stumbles backwards.   
  
"Get...fuck offa me," Ryan slurs, and then he's tripping down the hallway before Brendon hears the all-too-familiar sounds of puking.   
  
Fuck.   
  
He closes the door gently behind him and tucks himself under Spencer's arm. "He pushed me," he whispers. Spencer doesn't answer. They can hear Ryan. Brendon closes his eyes and wishes it was enough to block out the noise.   
  
"When I was five, I tried on my mom's lipstick," Spencer says. "And I used to wear her slips to bed until I was ten."   
  
Brendon half-smiles. It's good, as far as distractions go. Spencer never mentioned that in their endless games of Truth or Dare.   
  
"I tried to kiss a boy at recess when I was four," he confesses in response. "That was my first talk about mortal sin."   
  
"What was your most embarrassing middle school moment?" Spencer asks softly. Brendon makes a face.   
  
"In sex ed class, in seventh grade, I asked- I asked whether girls had nipples too. And the teacher almost sent me to detention cause she thought I was joking. But then I kept asking, and everybody realized I was serious." He can feel the rumble of laughter in Spencer's chest. "Shut up. Tell me yours."   
  
"Wow. Well. That's- okay. How the fuck did you not- no. Yeah. Okay. Um. Mine wasn't that bad, I guess. I got out of the lunch line and a girl tripped me. And my pizza got all over my face. And she started laughing, and started saying 'piggy' and making- oink noises. And the whole  
cafeteria picked up on it."   
  
"Shit," Brendon says emphatically.   
  
"Yeah." Spencer clears his throat. "He- Ryan. He punched her. Okay. High school?"   
  
Brendon burrows deeper into Spencer's side. "Too many to list," he mumbles.   
  
"Cop-out."   
  
"Fine, god. I, uh. Fuck. This guy, this football player. He came up to me in the bathroom one day. And started talking about how he was gay, and did I want to meet him by the bleachers after school. I didn't believe him, but he- yeah. He was pretty convincing. And so I did. And all the popular kids were there, waiting for me, and I ran. I ran as fast as I could, that was the only reason I didn't get beat up," he whispers, as fast as he can, into Spencer's neck.  
  
"Wow. I- wow. Who was it?"  
  
"Brian. Brian Daniels. I- the one who hung himself the next year. He. He actually was gay," Brendon says miserably.  
  
"Shit," Spencer breathes, and strokes him hair for a few moments. "Mine doesn't really stand up, I guess."  
  
"Tell me anyway."  
  
"I went to this party at Ryan's girlfriend's house. And he set me up with someone, so we were hooking up in somebody's bed, but she was so drunk she passed out. And, uh. It was late, so I just figured I'd sleep there, whatever. But I had a wet dream. Um, like. On her. Rubbing against her. I woke her up," Spencer mutters. "I was only fourteen," he adds defensively. Brendon giggles. "Yeah, well, your first wet dream was about Freddie Mercury," Spencer grumbles. Brendon laughs harder and hits him lightly.  
  
"Whatever, I was a dork, and everybody knows that."  
  
"You really were."  
  
"Is that what you thought when you first met me?" Brendon asks curiously.  
  
There's a long pause, and he wonders if Spencer's going to answer. He can still hear Ryan retching.   
  
"No," Spencer says slowly. "No, not exactly."   
  
"Then what?" Brendon asks, and pokes him a couple times for good measure.   
  
"I- your mouth. I looked at your mouth. And I thought maybe I wasn't as straight as I'd always hoped," Spencer says carefully.   
  
It's entirely possible that Brendon's heart stops. "Oh."   
  
"Yeah."   
  
"I didn't notice, I was trying to decide whether you or Ryan was scarier," Brendon admits, because he can't think of anything else to say. Spencer chuckles.   
  
"Yeah, I could kind of tell, once I got over the staring part," Spencer says. There's another pause. "What's your most traumatizing childhood memory?"  
  
"I was outside playing with my rabbit. Like, I'd literally gotten it three days before. And the neighbor's dog came into our yard and, uh, ate it."   
  
"Like in front of you? That's awful!"   
  
"Yeah. Pretty much," Brendon agrees. "Yours?"   
  
"I, um. Okay. Well. I was jerking off. Like right when I figured out about jerking off, so I was pretty young. And my sister came in and saw." Brendon giggles. "Shut up, I'm not done. So she gave me a weird look. And went downstairs. And my parents were having a dinner party, and she asked my mom what I was doing. Shut up!"   
  
Brendon's still laughing, giddy and over-tired. Spencer punches him lightly on the arm. "Sorry," Brendon grins. He's not. "Should I go check on Ryan again, y'think?" he asks. He feels Spencer shrug.   
  
Ryan's passed out when Brendon peeks into the bathroom, sprawled on the floor and frowning in his sleep. Brendon sighs. He folds a hand towel into a pillow and slips it under Ryan's head, then covers him in another towel. He fills a glass of water and places it, along with a bottle of Advil, on the rim of the bathtub. Ryan doesn't stir.   
  
"Passed out?" Spencer asks, and Brendon gets back in bed, wiggles close so they're face-to-face, but not touching.   
  
"I left him some Advil. He looks like a kid when he's asleep," Brendon whispers.   
  
"Never could hold his alcohol," Spencer replies, with a sad sort of laugh. "At least you learned."   
  
"Oh, god, let's not talk about it," Brendon mutters.   
  
"Talk about what? How you met Jon? Zack's first night working for us? The time you tried to hit on Mike Carden?" Spencer says wickedly. Brendon winces.  
  
"Yeah, all of those. To be fair, the Jon thing wasn't actually that bad."   
  
"Brendon. You were drunk, wearing nothing but Spongebob briefs, and trying to climb onto the roof of the bus so you could pretend you were on a magic carpet ride."   
  
"It's not fair, I've got nothing on you," Brendon grumbles.   
  
"And Jon was the only one who'd pretend to be your Jasmine," Spencer barrels on. "And then you puked on him."   
  
"Hate you.  _Hate_  you. Didn't you promise not to bring that up ever again? I was young and stupid. That is all."  
  
"Yeah, and you're so much older and wiser now," Spencer snorts.   
  
"Okay, I demand an embarrassing story in return. Tell me about your first time with a girl, you always wiggle out of that one when it comes up."   
  
Spencer sighs. "Please, no."   
  
"Go on."   
  
"Fine. It was one of the first groupies. I didn't really know what I was doing, like, at all, I'd never done anything more than feel a girl up. And she just kind of dragged me off. And she- she rode me. And I came in like five seconds- shut the fuck up- and then I had no idea how to get her off, and she was trying really hard to pretend like it wasn't awkward, making those porn noises girl do when they're faking it-" Brendon snorts. "-and then she, like, grabbed my hand. And did it for me. And Ryan wouldn't stop wiggling his fingers at me for weeks."   
  
"Oh, that's what that was about," Brendon says, stuffing his fist in his mouth to keep from laughing too loud.   
  
"I  _told_  him he wasn't subtle," Spencer whines.   
  
"Yeah. Ross. Subtle? Really?" Brendon smirks, and then he remembers who they're talking about. "Uh. What turns you on?"   
  
It's a subject change, an obvious one, anything to get away from Ryan. But as soon as Brendon says it, he realizes how much he wants to know.  
  
"I, uh-" Spencer clears his throat. "Dirty talk. I like...dirty talk. Haley wasn't- she didn't love it, but she did it sometimes. Phone sex. I- fuck, I really shouldn't say this."   
  
"Too late," Brendon whispers.   
  
"One night, I- I heard you. On the phone. With, I dunno, Lana, I think. Your voice was. Is. Fuck, I- yeah. I jerked off to that for weeks." Spencer's voice is barely a breath. Brendon's blushing hot in the dark.   
  
"Oh," he says weakly.  _Jesus._  He's half-hard already and that question was  _such_  a bad idea.   
  
"What about you?" Spencer asks, and Brendon can hear him swallow.   
  
"It's...pretty vanilla, I guess. I just like being...held down, being dominated. Being marked. I...I like being on top though, riding someone, having them grip my hips until they bruise. I like feeling like I'm on display. And," he wonders if he's going too far. He knows he's exploiting what Spencer just told him. He knows, if he rolled his hips forward, he'd find Spencer just as hard as he is, but he doesn't know, if he started touching, if he'd be able to stop. He plunges ahead anyway. "When I'm on top, it's the best angle. They're inside me as deep as possible. I like the stretch, I like it to hurt," he confesses, low and gravelly.   
  
"So what," Spencer starts, and pauses to take a deep breath. "What was the best sex of your life?"   
  
Brendon smiles a little. "William. Backstage, Truckstops & Statelines. He pinned me up against a wall with one hand. He was only...he was only touching me with one hand, the one that wasn't on my wrists, and he- he had me lick his fingers, and then he...he fingered me. Wasn't touching me anywhere else. Just two fingers, almost dry." He can hear Spencer's breath hitch. "And then when I was begging, when I was ready to come from just that, he lifted me against the wall and fucked me." His voice is hoarse, hungry, just thinking about it, but this time, he's imagining Spencer in William's place.   
  
It sounds like Spencer's holding his breath. There's a long, unbroken pause.   
  
"Oh," Spencer says, faint.   
  
"He's stronger than he looks," Brendon adds unnecessarily.   
  
"Huh."   
  
"Yeah. So. Anyway." Brendon's cheeks feel like they're on fire.   
  
"I, uh- What's Folkin' Around about?" Spencer says quickly. Brendon considers rejecting the subject change, but he has a feeling it's safer, in terms of his dick and it's proximity to Spencer's leg, to let it go.   
  
"I- well. About you guys. All of you. That summer in the cabin. Knowing people might hate the album and figuring, like, fuck 'em, we love it and that's enough. It's all- I thought everyone knew."   
  
"Nah. Fairly cryptic. That's- that's sweet," Spencer says, and Brendon can hear his smile. "So the bit about admitting you were wrong, and stuff?"   
  
"Wrote it that day Ryan and I fought over that chord for five hours."   
  
Spencer laughs. "I always thought it was a love song. I mean- well. Yeah. But I didn't think you'd ever- Have you ever been in love?"   
  
Brendon shakes his head wordlessly. "C'mon, we should go to sleep," he whispers instead.   
  
He figures if he doesn't say the  _no_  out loud, it won't feel like such a lie.   
  
  


. . .

  
  
  
"We're becoming nocturnal," Brendon says as he wanders into the kitchen, hair still wet from the shower. The clock reads 3:47. Spencer shrugs and hands him a plate of pancakes.   
  
"You and Ryan gonna write today?" he asks. Brendon shrugs.   
  
"I guess we kinda have to."   
  
They track Ryan down after breakfast or lunch or whatever it is. He's already in the music room, also known as the basement, curled into the couch and scribbling into a notebook. Brendon half-smiles when he looks up.   
  
"We should write," Ryan says flatly. "I have lyrics." It's not a particularly encouraging tone of voice.   
  
"Awesome," Brendon chirps, overly bright.   
  
"So for this, I was thinking something kind of syncopated," Ryan says to Spencer. He holds out a sheet of lyrics as Brendon sinks into the couch. Brendon scans it while Spencer taps out a quick rhythm on the hi-hat, and it doesn't make any sense whatsoever. There's what might be a metaphor, something about a cat.   
  
"Okay," Brendon says. "I, uh- I wrote this, maybe it could work." He's only a few bars in before Ryan's shaking his head.   
  
"I was thinking something a little more edgy, maybe? More rock?" Ryan says, and his tone of voice is polite enough, but Brendon feels cold.   
  
"Do you have any suggestions?"   
  
"Well, yeah." He plays something that could've been ripped straight from an old Kinks record.   
  
"I don't know," Brendon hesitates. He doesn't want to say what he honestly thinks, but he doesn't really have anything good to say either. Ryan glares, mouth tight. "I wrote some lyrics, too?" Brendon adds hopefully. He sings the melody. "I thought it'd be good to have a little close harmony on that, too."   
  
"I mean, it'd be nice to maybe musically evolve this album." Ryan's voice is patient, like he's explaining something to a toddler. Brendon flushes.   
  
"Show him that other one, Bren," Spencer says from behind his kit. Brendon smiles at him gratefully and plays the more upbeat tune.   
  
Again, Ryan shakes his head within seconds.   
  
"Brendon, we're not performing these on Broadway," he says, an edge of exasperation creeping into his voice.   
  
"I like it," Spencer says firmly. Ryan turns to him with one eyebrow raised. Spencer stares at him coolly. "Maybe you guys could find a compromise."   
  
Ryan looks like he might protest, but he just shrugs. "Okay. What was that chord progression?"   
  
Brendon shows him again, holds his breath as Ryan frowns at his fingers. "Maybe that could work with your lyrics?" he suggests.   
  
"Maybe. If we just switched a chord or two...It's nice, it is, but. Something a little more complex, maybe? A flat instead of the D?"   
  
It sounds wrong. Brendon's version was poppy, simple but pretty. This way, it sounds awkward. He doesn't want to say it. "I, uh- I kinda like the first way better," he near-whispers. Ryan glares.   
  
"Brendon, we're not making an album of- of show tunes," he says angrily. Brendon can't answer, torn between wanting, wishing, aching for this to work, and the certainty that what he did is damn good.   
  
"I like the original too," says Spencer. He's watching them warily.   
  
"Fine," Ryan spits, and his face, before he composes it again, is betrayed. "You guys write your fucking Disney songs. Am I the only one around here who thinks it might be good to evolve? To do something that a four-year-old couldn't write?" Brendon physically recoils. Ryan turns to him as he stands, lip curled. "But what do you care about my opinion for? You've got Spencer now," he hisses, and stomps up the stairs.   
  
Brendon stares at his hands for a long moment after Ryan's gone. He doesn't want to think. He grabs his guitar and strums, choppy and clumsy.   
  
"I just-" he starts, when he thinks he's composed enough to speak.   
  
"No, you're not-" Spencer says forcefully.   
  
"He didn't-"   
  
"I  _know_ -" He presses his fingers into the fret board, willing the strings to leave marks even through his calluses.   
  
"They're not-"   
  
"There's nothing wrong-"   
  
"He's-" Brendon doesn't notice the footsteps until he sees Spencer's favorite Converse in front of him. He looks up and forgets to breathe.   
  
Spencer's staring at him, intense and blazing and Brendon feels like he's being stripped. "Brendon," Spencer says roughly, and, very slowly, he takes Brendon's guitar, sets it to the side, and pulls Brendon off the couch.   
  
They're toe-to-toe, eyes locked, Brendon's breath short. Spencer's hand still around Brendon's wrist until he slides it deliberately up Brendon's arm, up his shoulder to cup his jaw, and then Spencer leans in and kisses him, slow and sure.   
  
Everything falls away. It's just Spencer's mouth, warm and gentle, the heat of his palm against Brendon's neck, his body strong and solid as Brendon melts against him, his thumb stroking sweetly at the hollow below Brendon's ear. They might as well be the only two people in the universe, for all Brendon cares right now. "This okay?" Spencer whispers against Brendon's lips, and Brendon fists his hands into the front of Spencer's shirt and pulls him close again, lets Spencer lick into his mouth while his stomach goes liquid.   
  
He doesn't know how much later they break apart. He does know that his cheeks are burning, that Spencer's hand is still resting gently at his jaw, that Spencer's lips are slightly swollen, his eyes dazed as they smile at each other.   
  
"About time," Brendon whispers. He rests his forehead on Spencer's shoulder.   
  
"We- we shouldn't, though. We can't," Spencer says hoarsely, but he's still carding his fingers through the hair at the nape of Brendon's neck. "Ryan-"   
  
And there it is again. Brendon sits down heavily.   
  
"I don't know what to do about him," he says. Spencer sits down and Brendon curls into him.   
  
"Me neither," Spencer confesses.   
  
"We- how are we supposed to do an album like this? He won't listen, he won't-" Brendon can feel himself panicking again, his heart racing. He grabs his guitar.   
  
"He's just shutting himself off completely," Spencer whispers. Even though he's too close for it to be comfortable, Brendon twists his arm enough to grip the fret board. He sees Spencer half-smile out of the corner of his eye at the first chords.   
  
"Don't worry," Brendon sings softly, and Spencer's voice, shaky, joins his on the next words: "About a thing. Cause every little thing's gonna be alright." Brendon's voice breaks on the second line and he stops, drops his head to Spencer's shoulder.   
  
"It will be," Spencer whispers. He pauses. " _We_  will be." That part, at least, doesn't feel like a lie.   
  
Spencer sleeps in Brendon's bed again that night, and when they hear Ryan stumble in around four in the morning, neither of them get up to check on him. Spencer pulls Brendon closer and they stare at each other in the dim moonlight, close enough that Brendon can feel Spencer's breath. It's a struggle not to kiss him.   
  
  


. . .

  
  
  
_"Shit looks nasty," Spencer comments, picking up one dried mushroom between two fingers and inspecting it dubiously.  
  
"It is. That's why you eat it with Nutella," Jon explains patiently. He swipes at the last piece of bread with the chocolatey knife and proceeds to divide the pile of shrooms into four parts, sprinkling them evenly over the bread and adding another slice with a flourish. "Yum," he pronounces, taking a bite of the first one.   
  
Brendon grabs his and stares at it for a second. Spencer catches his eye across the table, raising his eyebrows as if to say, "Chicken?" Brendon grins and takes the first bite.   
  
"How long does it take to kick in?" Ryan asks, licking a finger.   
  
"Like half an hour. Let's go in the music room."   
  
It's almost exactly half an hour later when Brendon feels it. The note Ryan's playing starts shivering inside him, warm and sharp. He leans back into his chair and drops his guitar and the next note, lower, shudders through his chest long after he hears it.   
  
"Spencer," he starts, turning to the couch, where Spencer's staring at Ryan's fingers as though hypnotized.   
  
"Yeah," he breathes, and Brendon laughs. He sinks down into the overstuffed cushion next to Spencer, feeling the drug creep up his spine. He closes his eyes and soaks up the music that's pouring from Jon's guitar. It's barely a melody, just a meandering series of notes, but each one hits Brendon like a wave, rolling through his skin and crashing into his bones, each one a shimmering pulse of color. Jon stops playing and Brendon feels the loss, skin suddenly bereft of the pressure of the music, and he whines a little before opening his eyes.   
  
"We should- lake?" Jon asks, gazing at the wall. They all follow behind him without a word, and Brendon wonders how it's hitting them, whether they see the same sparkling gold at the edge of their skin. They stumble down to the dock, sprawling across the sun-warmed wood. Brendon can hear, suddenly, every cricket in the woods around him, their lazy hum skittering under his skin.   
  
He turns his head to one side and there's Spencer and Brendon  **sees,**  sees every tiny freckle, but most of all, he sees Spencer's eyes. They're wide and amazed, childlike and delighted, and god, so blue. Brendon's never seen anything like it before, that shade of blue. He's sinking into it, feeling it open and envelop him, and he's diving into Spencer, falling headfirst into those big glassy pools of blue, until he's pulled back into his skin by the slightest brush of Spencer's hand against his wrist. It's his thumb, callused and cool, skating softly over Brendon's pulse, back and forth, calming and all-consuming, back and forth.   
  
"Spence," he whispers unconsciously, and he doesn't know what he was going to say, but it doesn't matter.   
  
"I can  **feel,** " Ryan announces like it's the answer to all questions, and Brendon can't help but tear his eyes away from Spencer and laugh, because, well,  **yeah,**  but it's such a simple way of stating what's happening to him.   
  
"Look at the tree," Jon interjects, one hand stretching up toward the pine tree that's looming over them, swaying in the slight breeze.   
  
"Tall," Spencer comments, voice dazed, and Ryan's laugh echoes across the lake, spiraling up into the golden late-afternoon sunlight._   
  
  


. . .

  
  
  
Brendon wakes up twined around Spencer, blinking into the harsh light. Spencer's palm is warm against his stomach. He bites his lip and extricates himself while Spencer stares balefully up at him.   
  
“This isn't fair. I want to, but we-” Brendon babbles, and runs for the coffee. He hears Spencer sigh.   
  
They make breakfast. Ryan peeks through the door around one and then leaves without telling them where he's going. Spencer slams his mug down a little harder than normal.   
  
“I'm gonna go brush my teeth and everything,” Brendon mumbles.   
  
“I'll walk the dogs.”   
  
Brendon brushes, spits, and repeats, then squints at himself in the mirror. "Spence, have you seen my hairbrush?" Brendon calls to the living room, scanning the bathroom cabinet. What the fuck.   
  
"Clearly you haven't recently," Spencer says as he wanders into the bathroom, grinning at Brendon's hair, which is standing straight up in the back.   
  
"Funny," Brendon mutters darkly, and closes the cabinet so he can pout at the mirror. Spencer wraps his arms around Brendon from the back and smiles at their reflection.   
  
"You look fine," he comments. He adjusts his arms, settles them higher, and the movement tugs at Brendon's shirt until there's a slice of pale skin showing above his waistband.   
  
Spencer's eyes are dark when they meet his in the mirror. Deliberately, he reaches one hand down and strokes the pad of his thumb up Brendon's hipbone. Brendon swallows hard.   
  
"What?" Spencer mutters huskily in his ear.   
  
"Stop it," Brendon breathes back, but really, he means nothing of the sort. He can feel Spencer pressed tight against his back, body all heat and curves. Spencer steps forward, crowding Brendon into the edge of the sink.  
  
"Ryan's out. Don't want to," Spencer whispers, and he slides his hand under the hem of Brendon's shirt, flattens one palm low on his stomach. Brendon shivers.   
  
"We shouldn't," he protests weakly, and Spencer trails his hand up the front of Brendon's chest to rub at his nipple. Brendon's getting hard, trapped helplessly between the sink and Spencer, and he arches into it and presses back, and Spencer's breath stutters out in a little sigh, and  _fuck._  
  
"Don't care," Spencer says, low and hoarse, and before Brendon can process it, Spencer's spinning him around and capturing his mouth in a hot, bruising kiss. Brendon, pressed into the counter, can't do anything but snake his arms around Spencer's neck and whimper. The first roll of Spencer's hips leaves him dizzy; the second, practically boneless, his limbs all liquid heat and tingling. Spencer's hard against his thigh and Brendon spreads his legs, rocking forward as best he can, while Spencer's hands fumble at his shirt and lift it off.   
  
He's panting when the cotton's gone, eyes raking hungrily up Brendon's torso, and when he leans forward to nip at Brendon's pulse point, Brendon has to bite down on his own knuckle to keep from crying out.   
  
"Don't," Spencer rasps, and tongues over the spot he just bruised. "Ryan's gone, it's okay. Want to hear you." He mouths down Brendon's neck, bites into the curve of his shoulder, and Brendon moans, his hips snapping forward uncontrollably. Spencer  _growls,_  and then he's slipping one hand behind Brendon's knee and pulling it up, wrapping Brendon's leg around his waist and, god, those  _hips,_  and Brendon's panting and arching into the slow rough grind.   
  
Spencer slides his hands behind Brendon's thighs and lifts, and Brendon clings breathlessly and settles onto the counter, hooking his legs around to twine around Spencer's waist. Spencer rolls his hips again, rough and demanding and perfect. Brendon falls back helplessly, groaning, and his head thunks against the mirror and his hand, splayed on the counter to support himself, sends deodorant and toothbrushes flying, and he can't bring himself to care so long as Spencer  _never_  stops.   
  
He tilts his head back against the mirror and closes his eyes. Spencer's sucking a line of bruises up his collarbone and down his jaw, panting between nips of his teeth, and Brendon's thinking he's going to come from just this, rutting against each other like teenagers, when he opens his eyes hazily and there's Ryan, framed in the open door, pale and frozen. His face is more vulnerable than Brendon's seen it in a month, raw with hurt and betrayal.   
  
"Spence," Brendon whispers, squeaks almost, and he shoves clumsily at Spencer's shoulders. Spencer sees, and he freezes.   
  
Brendon doesn't want to know how they look. Spencer, for his part, is utterly wrecked, lips red and swollen, eyes dark even as he stares like the proverbial deer. What a fucking sight they must be, Spencer still standing between Brendon's spread legs, Brendon arching forward wanton and exposed and still painfully hard.   
  
Fuck.   
  
"What the fuck are you doing here," Spencer chokes, hoarse. In a fraction of a second, Ryan's face composes itself back into the usual blank mask.   
  
"I could ask you the same thing," he snaps. "I forgot my phone, what's your excuse?" He waits, glaring, while Spencer and Brendon stare, then shakes his head and says to Spencer, sneering, "He still make that little whining noise right before he comes?"   
  
Brendon lets out a small whimper of surprise. He can feel Spencer's hands tighten on his lower back. Neither of them answer.   
  
"Bren, this is a low standard even for you," Ryan spits, and then he's gone.   
  
Shit. Fucking- no. But Spencer's already untangling himself, hands visibly shaking as he steps back, and he disappears around the corner just as the front door slams.   
  
Brendon scrambles down from the counter and follows. He shoves open Spencer's door without knocking and stops short. Spencer's braced against the wall with one hand, other hand pumping his cock, jeans shoved down just enough to move, legs spread. He looks up wildly as Brendon enters and comes as their eyes lock, shuddering, mouth dropping open in an obscene red O. Brendon whimpers. He has to press the heel of his hand against the front of his own jeans before he's composed enough to speak, but seriously, more important things.   
  
Spencer's got his back turned as he buttons his jeans, wiping a hand carelessly on a crumpled shirt. His shoulders are slumped.   
  
"He doesn't know what he's talking about," Brendon hisses.   
  
"No," Spencer says quietly. "He's right. You could do so much better."   
  
Brendon steps forward and tugs at his wrist to spin him around. "No."   
  
"Brendon, have you looked in the mirror lately?" Spencer laughs bitterly. "You- you're fucking gorgeous, okay?"   
  
"So are you," Brendon insists, and he means it.   
  
"No. No, Brendon, I'm not. Do you know what it was like, growing up with him? Nobody gave me a second glance when he was around. He'd try so hard to set me up, but- No. And, fuck, I know you guys hooked up, he's- I don't compare," Spencer mutters. He's blushing, mouth tight and miserable.   
  
"Spencer, I don't need a porn dick, I need you," Brendon says impatiently. "I mean, for fuck's sake. I'm not exactly packing. Ryan's got his-  _assets_. But you're- you're  _you._ "   
  
It's crude, but at least it coaxes a little half-smile out of Spencer before he's shaking his head again. "Still, he's right. You could do so much better. William. Audrey. Patrick-"  
  
"Can we  _not_  list all my hookups right now," Brendon interrupts. "Just shut the fuck up, okay? Spencer, I want  _you._  And it's really fucking dumb, because this is possibly the worst timing in the history of, like, ever. Do you think I'd risk that if I wasn't-" He bites his lip. Spencer's looking at him, dark and intense. He can't really find words.   
  
"Yeah?" Spencer says uncertainly. Brendon nods. "Good, cause there's something I was meaning to do." And without further warning, he pushes Brendon against the dresser, sinking down to his knees and pulling Brendon's jeans with him, and takes Brendon's cock into his mouth, all the way down to the base. Brendon fucking  _yelps,_  hands fluttering helplessly. That's Spencer's  _mouth_. He just takes it as Brendon's hips snap forward uncontrollably, opening his throat, and all it takes is one good suck, the visual of his still-swollen lips stretched around Brendon's cock, before Brendon's vision whites out completely.   
  
"Jesus fucking fuck, what the fucking shit was that," Brendon finds himself babbling when he comes to. He slides bonelessly down the dresser, crumpling on the floor while Spencer licks his lips and looks,  
justifiably, very smug. "Seriously, how- what. What."   
  
"Um," Spencer grins sheepishly. "Bob Bryar?"  
  
Okay. That is something Brendon would like on video.   
  
"We need to get interrupted less," he says without thinking, and then he remembers the actual interruption and winces. Spencer looks stormy.   
  
"Well. Yeah," he bites out.   
  
"I think he feels a little," Brendon says, and then flaps his hands around because Spencer just sucked out his brains through his cock, okay, he can't be expected to make sentences right now.   
  
"Yeah. I know." Spencer's staring dully at the bit of dresser next to Brendon's head. "We- are we making this worse?"   
  
"I don't know," Brendon says unhappily. "But I don't know if I can...if I can do it without you. And. I mean, too late now, right? And, like, how much worse can it get." They stare at each other and neither of them says it.   
  
  


. . .

  
  
Brendon does a double take when he enters the kitchen the next morning; Ryan is sitting across from Spencer. There's a slight downward twist to his mouth that makes Brendon feel vaguely sick.   
  
"Morning," Brendon says cautiously.   
  
He sees Ryan's gaze flicker over to him, lingering for a moment on his neck. "Morning," Ryan monotones. Brendon winces internally before Ryan goes back to his magazine.  
  
He makes wide eyes at Spencer, who shrugs, mouth tight. Even with Ryan sitting there, Brendon feels a flash of heat through his stomach when he sees the bruise he left, just under Spencer's ear.   
  
It's deadly silent through breakfast. Brendon does his best to chew quieter than normal.   
  
"I think I'm gonna go for a swim," Spencer says, as he puts his bowl away. It's directed mostly at Brendon.   
  
"Mind if I join you?" Ryan asks. Brendon looks sideways at him, at the defensive set of his shoulders and the nervous way he's tapping against the table. He looks like he didn't sleep all that much. Brendon feels painfully guilty.   
  
"Of course not," Spencer says flatly. Brendon scoops up his last bites of cereal and follows them.   
  
Ryan doesn't swim. Brendon watches his thin t-shirt cling to his skin and has a nasty hunch why. Instead, he slathers himself with SPF 50 and sits on the lounge chair with his battered copy of  _Atlas Shrugged._    
  
"You sure you don't want to come in?" Brendon asks, as he passes by in his swim trunks. Ryan glares pointedly at the bruises dotted across his upper body and shakes his head.   
  
"I-" Brendon starts, but he can't figure out what he wants to say, so he just turns and heads for the pool.   
  
Spencer's lying face-down on one of the rafts. Brendon does a couple laps and then swims to him, grabbing on so he's treading water right next to Spencer.   
  
"I didn't get to kiss you good morning," Spencer frowns without opening his eyes.   
  
"Too late now," Brendon says miserably. He can see Ryan watching them over the top of his book.   
  
"This isn't fair," Spencer whispers.   
  
"I know, but- I mean. We should've told him."   
  
"When? How? He didn't- he never gave us a chance to." Spencer looks at Brendon, scowling, and his eyes match the pool water. Brendon shrugs. "I'm not gonna let him ruin this," Spencer says fiercely.   
  
Brendon gives a weak smile. "I don't think it's gonna go over well if we start making out in front of him."   
  
"When he leaves. I- It's so hard not to touch you, when you're right there." One of Spencer's fingers brushes lightly against Brendon's wrist, and it's enough to send tingles up his arm.   
  
"Later," Brendon promises, and he backstrokes away.   
  
It's hard to have fun with Ryan watching from the porch. Brendon swims a few laps and then sits by the side, playing fetch with Bogart and trying not to stare at the muscles of Spencer's back.   
  
It feels wrong, somehow, to be out in the sun like this, pretending nothing's wrong. He can feel Ryan’s eyes on him as he passes by and goes into the house. He changes back into jeans and, before he puts on a shirt, runs his thumbs gently over the bruises on his hipbones. He can practically feel Spencer there, the rough pressure of his hips, the indentations of his fingers. The room feels too small.   
  
His throat feels tight and it’s just not  _fair._  Half of him wants to make it better, apologize, talk to Ryan, figure out what the fuck is going on and fix it. And the other half, the half he’s starting to think is stronger, is remembering everything Ryan’s said to him in the past few weeks, the drugs, the drinking, the look in Spencer’s eyes when Ryan had snarled, “ _low standard,”_  Spencer’s mouth on his. It’s not  _fair._    
  
He's being ripped apart by two of the people he cares about most.   
  
Ryan's lyrics are still crumpled on the floor when he goes down to the music room. He balls them up and drops them in the trash, sits down on the couch with his guitar.   
  
The chords come out wrong, like they always do when he's too angry to concentrate, so he takes a deep breath and tries to exhale slowly. When he fingers the frets again, it's better. He closes his eyes and starts to play.   
  
"Blackbird" is one of those songs he could play by feel alone, and he does, letting his mind wander as he picks at the strings. His eyes are closed but he sees Spencer on the back of his lids, the freckles across his chest, the bitten-red curve of his mouth. Brendon shudders and the strings jangle. He launches into "Layla" instead. It's harder, one he has to think about.   
  
Almost to his surprise, he isn't interrupted for a long time. He plays the Bon Iver song he's been in love with lately, then some old Sublime and a few of his own new ideas, working through all the places that sound wrong, fiddling idly with chords and progressions and melodies until the mess in his head feels, somehow, clearer. His fingers shape the chords for "Three Little Birds" before he thinks about it, and that's what he's playing when Ryan comes down the stairs.   
  
"Spencer made dinner," he says shortly, without bothering to knock, and Brendon starts and squints at him.   
  
"'S dinnertime?" he mumbles, and rubs at his eyes. It is, in fact; seven at night. He had no idea. Ryan's already headed back up the stairs.   
  
Dinner is utterly silent. Spencer picks at his plate, mouth a grim line, and all Brendon can manage is "This is good," before Ryan quells him with a Look. He's really not that hungry, anyway.   
  
"Are you going back downstairs?" Spencer asks, as Brendon's clearing his plate. Ryan's still fiddling with his barely-touched pasta.   
  
"Yeah, I thought I would."   
  
"I'll come with you," Ryan says abruptly. Spencer makes an exasperated sort of face at Brendon and shrugs.   
  
"Hey, Ry," Brendon says, and clears his throat nervously. Ryan stares at him, icy. "I'm sorry. We're sorry we didn't tell you."   
  
"Yeah. We are," Spencer whispers.   
  
"Sorry for what?" Ryan says, too sugary to be trusted. Brendon and Spencer exchange a glance. "For sneaking around behind my back? For not telling me something that could fuck up the entire band and, like, our  _careers_?" He's grinning maniacally. "For letting me find out like that? For ignoring me since I've been here? No, guys, seriously, it's fine."   
  
Brendon does a double-take at the last one.   
  
"Ryan, we haven't been-" he says, at the same time Spencer lets out an indignant sort of huff.   
  
"Forget about it," Ryan says, cold and flat once more. "It's fine. You guys can do whatever you want. Let's go write a fucking album already." He turns on his heel and stomps away. They have no choice, really, but to follow.   
  
"I tried," Brendon whispers. Spencer nods and brushes his fingers along the inside of Brendon's wrist.   
  
"Yeah."   
  
"I'm going to the bathroom," Ryan calls from the hallway, and Spencer freezes. Brendon laces their fingers together.   
  
"He wouldn't."   
  
"Yeah, he would, I don't care, fuck it, come here," Spencer says, all one rushed breath. He pulls Brendon close and Brendon goes without protest, whimpering into the first rough tug of Spencer's teeth at his lip.   
  
"Been thinking about you all day," Brendon confesses hoarsely, as Spencer nips over yesterday's marks.   
  
"I'd fuck you right here if we had the time," Spencer growls, and Brendon gasps, distantly hears the bathroom door open. He's still panting, still concentrating very hard on not whimpering out loud, as Spencer mutters, "Fucking hell," and heads for the stairs. Brendon hears Ryan's door shut and sighs.   
  
Ryan glares at him when he comes around the corner, sharp and wide-eyed, and Brendon refuses to think about what he's just done. He licks his lips and jerks his head toward the stairs, and Ryan stares at his mouth before walking away, stiff-backed.   
  
Brendon settles himself on the couch again, a respectful distance from where Ryan's strumming vindictively at his guitar.   
  
"I just want to warm up for a few," Ryan says. "Let's do Northern Downpour."   
  
"Really?" Brendon says, before he can help it. That's a Keltie song.   
  
"Really," Ryan says, with a sarcastic sort of smile, and starts to play. His hair is growing out and it's hiding his eyes as he slouches over his guitar, but Brendon can see he's flushed. Spencer gives him a meaningful look over Ryan's head, raising his eyebrows, and Brendon has to close his eyes for a second before nodding slightly. Spencer's grip on his drumsticks goes white-knuckled.   
  
Brendon sings, tentative and soft. Ryan's shoulders hunch at the first verse.   
  
"Stop," he says casually just before the chorus. Brendon stops, relieved. Ryan looks up, brushing his hair away from his face, and smiles sweetly, condescendingly. His eyes are too glassy.   
  
"Um?" Brendon asks, and Ryan cocks his head.   
  
"Is your voice okay? You sound a little hoarse," he says innocently. Brendon stares.   
  
"I'm fine," he says quickly. He didn't think Ryan would resort to that, of all things.   
  
"Ryan," Spencer interrupts, and it's taut with rage.   
  
"No, it's fine, let's just play," Brendon whispers to his hands.   
  
"No," Spencer snaps. "Ryan, how dare you-"   
  
"Don't you tell me-" Ryan spits back, shoving his guitar away and standing up, fists balled.   
  
"No!" Spencer shouts, and his sticks go flying across the room. Brendon can't. He bolts, stumbling for the stairs, tripping over himself in his haste to get away. "Bren, wait-" he hears, and then he's slamming his bedroom door behind him.   
  
He's practically blind with everything he's feeling, rage and paralyzing fear and, god, he's so fucking  _angry,_ can't figure out where they went wrong and it's not  _fair,_  and he presses the heels of his hands into his eyes and lets out a strangled scream that rips painfully at his throat.   
  
"Fuck," he spits, and slides down the door, pulling his knees to his chest. "Fuck."   
  
"Bren," he hears, timid, and a knock.   
  
"Spence, please, don't- I can't. You can- stay there?"   
  
Brendon rubs a hand through his hair. He wants nothing more than to hug Spencer right now, but he knows if he does, it's all over. He can't think straight when Spencer's there.   
  
"Okay," Spencer says. It sounds close, raw and soft but close, and Brendon wonders if they're mirroring each other on opposite sides of the door. "I'm sorry. Sorry, Bren, I can't- I lost it. I didn't- fuck, I don't know how you didn't. It's like-" he chuckles a little. "I'm proud of you." Brendon manages a wry smile at that.   
  
"S'okay," he says, and then repeats it louder in case Spencer can't hear. "Is he still downstairs?"   
  
"Yeah.” There's silence for a while. Brendon stares at his hands. “It's like...” Spencer chokes out a laugh. “I feel like I failed, somehow." He sounds helpless and defeated and Brendon squeezes his eyes shut again.   
  
"You didn't," he insists.   
  
"I- I know. I mean. I almost know. Part of me isn't so sure."   
  
"Not your fault," Brendon says again, more forceful.  
  
"But I should've done something. When he got here, I should've known. He wasn't- I should've known."   
  
"You can't beat yourself up for Ryan's idiocy," Brendon says. It  _hurts,_  to hear Spencer berating himself like this, the low ache in his voice.   
  
"I've been doing it most of my life, why stop now?" Spencer says, with a hollow laugh.   
  
"We have to... I don't know. Yeah. No. I have no idea what to do," Brendon confesses bitterly. He thunks his head back against the door.   
  
"I just- I won't give you up, not for this," Spencer says. It sounds muffled, like he's resting his chin on his knees.   
  
"Yeah." Brendon buries his face in his hands.   
  
"I'm sorry I freaked out like that. I don't know- it feels so wrong, screaming at Ryan, but I think if it was anyone else I would've decked him."   
  
"It's not fair," Brendon says, and wants to hit himself.   
  
"No. It's not," Spencer agrees. "Fuck, I just want-" Brendon hears him sigh. He reaches up behind him and unlocks the door.   
  
"Come in," he says, and stands. Spencer steps through cautiously.   
  
"Sorry," he says again, and reaches out to cup Brendon's jaw.   
  
"Don't be," Brendon sighs, and melts against him, pressing himself against warm skin . He stumbles back against the doorframe and lets Spencer kiss him breathless. “Don't be,” he mumbles again, and Spencer trails kisses down his neck.   
  
“Fuck,” Spencer sighs. He pulls away and Brendon wants to pull him close again, but then he hears the footsteps on the stairs. “I'm gonna go shower, I guess.”   
  
“Mmrgh,” Brendon groans. It's really all he can manage. Is it even possible to be cockblocked this many times in one day?  
  
Spencer goes into the bathroom and Brendon flops down face-first on his bed. He's allowed to be self-pitying for a while. He hears Ryan's pointy-toed shoes march down the hall to his room, then back out within a couple minutes, and the TV turns on.   
  
He's rolled onto his back, staring at the crack in the ceiling and graduated to self-loathing, when he hears a knock.   
  
"C'mon, we're going out," Spencer says, and when he's standing there in his black v-neck with his hip cocked like that, well, Brendon's not exactly going to say no.   
  
"'Kay?" he asks. "Uh, let me-" he grabs the first shirt he finds, a gray button-down, and throws it on over his jeans, and Spencer's already heading for the car.   
  
“Ryan, we're going out,” Brendon hears him call.   
  
“I-” Ryan starts, as Brendon trots after Spencer. Brendon stops, looking at him anxiously.   
  
“You should stay here,” he whispers, and turns around before he can see Ryan's reaction.   
  
Spencer's started the car by the time Brendon makes it outside. “Okay,” Spencer breathes, and peels out of the driveway. “We're not- we're not gonna think about it, okay?”   
  
“Yeah.”   
  
“Okay.” Brendon can see the tension leaking out of Spencer's shoulders.  
  
"Why the hurry?" he asks hesitantly. They must be doing seventy.   
  
"The faster we get there, the faster I can touch you," Spencer says, and Brendon gulps, sits back in his seat, and wishes Spencer would speed up.   
  
"There" turns out to be one of the seediest clubs Brendon's ever seen, but he knows the likelihood of anyone recognizing them here is next to nothing. Spencer steers him toward the dance floor with one firm hand on the small of his back.   
  
Brendon's seduction technique is fairly simple: feign confidence, smile a lot, and dance. Right now, though, he's at a loss, because he's never danced with, never tried to seduce, anyone like Spencer. He's never  _wanted_ anyone the way he wants Spencer. His eyes are piercing, electric, and his hands are sure on Brendon's hips, and Brendon feels like a sixth grader again, nervous and stuttering.   
  
Brendon's back is pressed to Spencer's front, their hips locked in a slow dirty grind to the beat of some shitty rap song, and Brendon can already feel him hard against his thigh. He leans back and takes a deep breath and tries to relax into it, but  _god._  All he can feel is the sharp hot spike of arousal with every ghost of Spencer's breath against his ear.  
  
"Brendon," Spencer growls, and slips one hand under the hem of Brendon's shirt. He shivers. "Your fucking  _hips_ ," Spencer whispers, the last word broken and reverent, and really, he should talk. Brendon arches against him and raises one hand to wrap around the back of Spencer's neck, shameless. He dips down and rolls his hips back and Spencer's breath catches. Brendon grins. He doesn't feel nervous any more. He snakes his torso, feels Spencer's fingers clench on his hips.   
  
"I'm gonna go get a drink, be right back," Spencer whispers, and then he's gone, tossing a smug smile over his shoulder on the way to the bar.  _Fucker._  Brendon can't remember the last time he's had to work at this; usually, he smiles, they dance for a song or two, and then he's getting sucked off in the bathroom. This way is much more fun.   
  
He grabs the next guy who passes by, tall and tattooed, and the guy looks like he can't believe his luck. Brendon grinds back against him and scans the crowd for Spencer.   
  
It doesn't take long, maybe a song, before Spencer shoulders through the crowd, wiping his mouth. His eyes lock on Brendon, the guy's hands on his thighs, and he raises an eyebrow. Brendon smiles back, innocent as he can manage.   
  
Spencer doesn't ask, just grabs Brendon by one wrist and tugs him forward forcefully so their hips collide. His eyes are electric in the red glow of the club lights. He ignores Tattoo Guy's protests and pulls Brendon closer, hands tight against Brendon's lower back, smile predatory. Their bodies lock perfectly.   
  
"Nice try," Spencer whispers, breath hot at Brendon's ear, "but I know you're not going home with anyone else tonight." Brendon drops his forehead to Spencer's shoulder and tries not to whimper.   
  
They're rubbing against each other more than dancing now, cocks brushing through denim on every roll of their hips, rough and desperate and just the good side of painful. Brendon knows Spencer can hear how ragged his breath is, his forehead resting on the sweat-slick curve of Spencer's neck. He darts his tongue out to taste, flicking over a mark he left last night, and then Spencer's shuddering and shoving at him clumsily and crowding them towards the door. "C'mon, let's go," he pants.   
  
"Yeah," Brendon breathes.   
  
Spencer half-pulls him to the exit and past the bouncer, stumbling against him and leading him to a narrow alley a few doors down from the club. He's pressed against Brendon as soon as they're somewhat hidden, fingers in Brendon's belt loops and kissing him hungrily.   
  
"Wait," Brendon gasps, before he can get too lost in it. He reverses their positions, shoving Spencer against the brick wall, and kneels. "I think I owe you something."   
  
"You don't have to-" Spencer starts, and Brendon watches his eyes go hazy as Brendon nuzzles his thigh, breathes deliberately against his zipper.   
  
"Want to," he murmurs, "want to taste you, Spence. Please." Spencer nods, bites his lip, and Brendon eases down his zipper.   
  
"Fuck, your mouth was  _made_  for this," Spencer breathes, and Brendon grins up at him, running his tongue over his bottom lip before pulling Spencer's cock out. He's leaking, flushed dark, fucking gorgeous, and Brendon exhales shakily before darting his tongue over the very tip. Spencer whimpers. He looks like he's about to say something, but it breaks off into a moan as Brendon takes him in, swirling his tongue around the head before relaxing his throat and going down.   
  
He closes his eyes and lets the feel of it take over, Spencer pressing hot and thick against his tongue, the musky scent of him everywhere, his ragged moan as Brendon's lips reach the base. Brendon opens his eyes and tilts his head back just enough to glance up at him. Spencer's staring back, pupils blown, eyes hazy blue and overwhelmed in the grimy yellow glow of the streetlamp. Brendon eases off, sucking at the head and pressing a hand to his crotch as Spencer curses and lets his head fall back.   
  
"So fucking gorgeous," Brendon says, voice low and raspy already. He grabs one of Spencer's hands and places it on the back of his own head, half-smiles as Spencer stares down at him disbelievingly. "'S okay, I like it," he whispers, and licks a stripe up the bottom of Spencer's cock, tongues the slit, tasting pre-come bitter and salty, and sucks him in again. Spencer rocks his hips forward and Brendon lets him, breathing carefully though his nose before sinking all the way down. Spencer's hand tugs sharply at his hair and Brendon moans around him.   
  
"Fuck fuck fuck," Spencer gasps above him, hips snapping forward again, and Brendon lets Spencer fuck into his mouth, palming desperately at the front of his own jeans. He tilts his head back and lets Spencer take him. He knows how he must look, eyes closed, groaning with his lips stretched tight around Spencer's cock, rubbing helplessly against his own hand as Spencer thrusts into his throat, and he doesn't care. This is what he gets off on, making someone come apart under his tongue. This is worth bruised knees and a sore throat, the way Spencer's fast losing his rhythm, hips moving quick and jerky as he gives up any semblance of self-control. Brendon moans once more and Spencer chokes out a curse and comes down Brendon's throat, fingers tightening in Brendon's hair.   
  
He takes a ragged breath and pulls back, slipping out of Brendon's mouth with a wet  _pop._  He moves as if to pull Brendon up, but Brendon's already unzipping his own jeans, stroking himself roughly, eyes on Spencer as he spills over his hand within seconds.   
  
He shudders through the aftershocks, licking a drop of come from the corner of his mouth while Spencer stares. Brendon grins hazily up at him. He tucks himself back into his jeans and does the same for Spencer before standing. Spencer slides a hand to the back of his neck and kisses him gently, reverently, licking his own taste from Brendon's tongue. "Whoa," he whispers, resting their sweaty foreheads together as they both come down. Brendon smiles as he laces their fingers together. They walk back to the car hand-in-hand.   
  
The first fifteen minutes pass in comfortable silence, Brendon sinking back into his seat, still orgasm-hazy. "So the club was just an excuse to get out of the house?" he asks lightly. His voice is fucked, rough beyond recognition.  
  
"Pretty much."   
  
"Spencer Smith, you're not much of a gentleman," Brendon laughs.   
  
"Didn't notice you complaining," Spencer grins.   
  
"Well, it just so happens that I'm kind of easy for you. Usually I need to be wined and dined."   
  
"Wined and dined, huh?" Spencer says softly. "I can do that, too." He smiles sideways at Brendon. Brendon's breath catches.   
  
"I'm not cheap, either," he says primly, to cover. Spencer laughs.   
  
There's a comfortable silence for a while, until Spencer says hesitantly, "So you- you really enjoy- y'know. That?"   
  
Brendon nods. "Yeah. I- I always have. It's a weird sort of- power thing, I guess. On one hand I'm making someone just- just lose it, come apart, lose control. And on the other hand, I'm giving up control too, letting someone do what they want to me. Besides, I just- I like the feel of it. I like the taste, I like the way you feel in my mouth."   
  
Spencer shudders slightly, knuckles white against the steering wheel. "Oh."   
  
"That was the only thing William used to beg for," Brendon says absently. "My mouth. He was a fucking bastard sometimes, could tease for hours, but when I got on my knees...He doesn't look as hot as you when he's getting sucked off, though. You...fuck, Spence, the way you bite your lip?" He looks over and Spencer's glaring at the road. He smirks a bit as he continues. "And the first time you pulled my hair, that was almost it for me. Drummer hands. You have no idea, the things I've thought about your-"   
  
The car swerves so abruptly Brendon thinks they've just missed an armadillo or something. But, no, they're turning down a narrow side street, away from the cars on the main road, and Spencer's pulling over. He stops the car and looks over, just  _looks,_  eyes challenging, and Brendon's mouth is dry.   
  
"Get in the back," Spencer says. Brendon's already scrambling for the door handle.   
  
He straddles Spencer, grinds down as Spencer's hands slide under his shirt and grip his hips. Brendon melts into it.  _This_  is what he needs, strong hands and a bruising kiss and those fucking eyes, glittering with laughter and something darker as Brendon hisses at the first rough brush of their cocks through denim. He rocks up to meet Brendon, fingers finding last night's bruises on Brendon's hips, and Brendon gasps, arches into it. Spencer slips one hand up Brendon's torso to tweak at his nipple, mouthing along his collarbone. Brendon's skin feels too tight. He tangles one hand in Spencer's hair, forces his head back for a blistering kiss, frantic and dirty. He grinds down hard and gasps, and they're not kissing now so much as panting into each others' mouths.   
  
Spencer fumbles at Brendon's fly, tugging clumsily at the button, and Brendon does the same for him. The angle's all wrong, but the simple brush of Spencer's palm along the head of his dick has Brendon's head spinning.   
  
He can't remember the last time he was this close this quickly. It's just  _Spencer,_  his hands and his eyes and his lips and his heat, his breath stuttering over Brendon's neck, his hips arching up into the friction. One hand dips down Brendon's back to cup his ass roughly and Brendon gasps.   
  
Spencer whines, low and broken in the back of his throat, and then his fingers are pushing at Brendon's lips. Brendon opens his mouth and sucks, swirls his tongue over Spencer's knuckles while Spencer watches, pupils blown. His eyes are the size of the fucking moon, and Brendon wants to hit himself for even thinking of the lyric, but it's never meant so much to him as it does now; Spencer's eyes wide and intense, electric blue in the near-dark, the image of his slick, gaping mouth seared into Brendon's consciousness.   
  
He pulls his fingers away, slides his hand down the back of Brendon's jeans, and Brendon arches his back and whimpers. The first brush of Spencer's fingers at his hole has him shivering. Spencer just teases, little movements of his index finger tracing sensitive skin, and Brendon leans into him, resting his sweaty forehead against Spencer's so he can whimper in his ear: "Spence, want you, please, more, want you inside, god, your  _fingers,_  feels so good-" Spencer moans, slips his index finger inside up to the first knuckle, and Brendon's vision goes fuzzy as he comes between them, clutching convulsively at the front of Spencer's shirt.   
  
"Fuck," Spencer gasps, and he's bucking up helplessly. Brendon shoves a hand clumsily between them, stroking once up Spencer's cock before he's coming too. The only sound is their breathing, ragged as they come down, and the rush of a car past the window. Brendon had almost forgotten where they were.   
  
"I feel like a fucking teenager again," he laughs against Spencer's mouth, kissing him softly. "The backseat, really? You couldn't have waited till we got home?"   
  
" _You_  make me feel like a teenager again," Spencer whispers, and Brendon's heart thumps. He doesn't get time to think about it. "C'mon, fuck, we're such a mess."   
  
They really are. Brendon grabs some old paper napkins out of the side pocket and they clean themselves up as best they can, giggling, but Spencer's shirt is stained beyond repair.   
  
"Worth it?" Brendon asks, still half on Spencer's lap as he dabs at the hem of his own shirt. He can't help but kiss Spencer again, breathless and smiling, and he can feel Spencer's lips curve up against his own.   
  
"So worth it," Spencer says, and he rests his hand on Brendon's thigh for the drive home.   
  
"We should go surfing tomorrow," Brendon says as they get out of the car. Spencer slings an arm around his shoulders and kisses his cheek.   
  
"Sounds good." He fumbles one-handed with the key.   
  
Brendon doesn't think of Ryan until the door swings open and he's  _there,_  halfway through the kitchen door as he stares, eyes wide with hurt and betrayal behind glassy pupils. Spencer stops mid-laugh. His hand goes instinctively to cover the come-stain on the hem of his shirt.   
  
Not that it helps. The both have bite-shaped bruises everywhere, hair tousled, arms still around each other, lips red,  _jesus, fuck._    
  
"Hi," Brendon says weakly, to break the awful silence. Ryan's jaw twitches.   
  
"Fuck you," he spits, and taps one balled fist against the side of his thigh. He's feverishly flushed. It hurts to look at him.   
  
“Ryan, we didn't want to hurt you, we just- We should've told you, I know,” Brendon babbles.  
  
“Don't fucking talk to me like that,” Ryan growls. “I don't need you, I don't need your shit, I've never needed you and I don't know where you got the idea-”   
  
Brendon doesn't hear the rest of the sentence. It's far away, distant, because all he can focus on is the trickle of red, sick and vibrant, oozing from Ryan's nose.   
  
“Ryan, you-” he whispers, and somehow it cuts straight through Ryan's rant. Brendon touches the space between his own nose and lip, and Ryan freezes. He spins around before clapping a hand up to his face.   
  
"Ry-" Brendon starts, and Ryan cuts him off.   
  
"Don't. Just fucking don't," he snarls over his shoulder, and he stalks away, back taut, until they hear the slam of his door.   
  
Spencer's jaw is working silently, teeth grinding, for at least a minute before he manages to form words. “How could he,” he grits out. “He can't- He's just ignoring- We've been friends for so long, and now he thinks- I'd never-” He bites down on his lip. “How did I let this happen?”   
  
It comes out broken and pleading, and Brendon's chest clenches painfully. “Spence, it's not you,” is all he can manage. He grabs Spencer's hand and squeezes. Spencer exhales slowly and nods.   
  
“I know,” he whispers.   
  
Brendon watches as he composes himself, shutting his eyes and swallowing. “Bed?” he asks, and Spencer nods again.   
  
They strip out of their dirty clothes and change into sweatpants. Brendon cuddles close, wriggling into the curve of Spencer's arm and stroking one hand down his side.   
  
"I don't- he's a different person. I don't recognize him. It's terrifying," Spencer says into Brendon's hair, voice still strained.   
  
"We're making it worse," he mutters.   
  
"Yeah. But I don't know if I could do it without you.”   
  
"Me neither." He can feel Spencer crying, chest shuddering with every rise and fall under Brendon's cheek.   
  
"Shh," he soothes, and holds on tighter. Spencer pets at his lower back.   
  
"I don't know if I could do this without you," Spencer repeats.   
  
"You don't have to," Brendon whispers fiercely.


	5. (5/5)

Spencer's curled around him when he wakes up the next morning. He must be getting used to the lead weight that's taken up permanent residence in his stomach. Right now, all he feels is sleepy and satiated.   
  
He rolls over to face Spencer, watching his eyelashes flutter against the freckles on his cheeks as he wakes up. "Morning," Brendon whispers. Spencer grunts and settles closer, hips fitting against Brendon's in a way that sends lazy shivers up his skin. Brendon leans in to kiss him without thinking of morning breath. Spencer's lips curl into a smile against his mouth.   
  
"Good morning," Spencer says hoarsely, and he reaches down to cup Brendon's ass and pull him closer, grinning. Brendon tangles their legs together and rolls his hips lazily. Spencer reaches past the elastic of his boxers and strokes him to full hardness, hand just barely too rough and dry around him, perfect and slow with sleep still blurring the edges of his vision. He rocks his hips up into the curl of Spencer's fist and returns the favor, fingers still slightly clumsy as he pushes down Spencer's pajama pants.   
  
"Sleep well?" he asks cheekily, and chokes out a gasp as Spencer does something twisty with his wrist.   
  
"Like a baby," Spencer answers, and does it again, and Brendon forgets about words for a while, watching the way Spencer's mouth goes slack as Brendon tightens his fist.   
  
They're not awake enough for frantic or desperate and Brendon just brushes light kisses against Spencer's jaw, letting the slow heat build in his stomach. Spencer's eyes flutter shut, golden in the morning sun, and Brendon's orgasm hits him without warning, shuddering sweetly through him as he gasps out Spencer's name. He opens his eyes to watch Spencer work himself, his cock dark and slick as it peeks through his fist. “So fucking hot,” he mumbles, and Spencer bucks up and comes over their stomachs.   
  
“ _Good_  morning,” Spencer says emphatically. Brendon smiles and pulls his boxers off, swiping lazily at both of them.   
  
“Don' wanna shower,” he grumbles, when it's clear that stained cotton is really not going to fix the mess.   
  
“Ready to go back to sleep,” Spencer yawns. Brendon feels something flutter in his chest. A few strands of Spencer's hair are clinging to the barely-there sheen of sweat on his forehead, and his eyes are half-closed and too blue, and Brendon... Brendon might be in trouble.   
  
“Let's go surfing today,” he says impulsively, and Spencer shrugs and nods.   
  
“Shower first though.”   
  
  


. . .

  
  
  
They spend the day at Hermosa Beach. Brendon gives Spencer a quick on-land tutorial and then they head out into the waves. The water is still bone-bitingly cold, but the sun is warm above them and Brendon manages to forget all about the Ryan mess by sheer force of will. He catches a few waves, has nachos for dinner, and lets his breath catch every time he looks at Spencer, the way the light streams golden through his hair on the drive home. When they pull over Spencer's skin tastes like salt and seawater.   
  
He has two missed calls from Shane when they finally get home, so he dials back before he showers.   
  
"Okay, spill, what's going on," Shane commands.   
  
"You first, mine's gonna take a while. How's filming?"   
  
"I film. It happens all the time. You."   
  
Brendon rolls his eyes and tries to remember everything that's happened in the last few days. "Well. Yeah. I don't know where to start. We- walked in on him doing coke. Alone. In the house."   
  
"Shit," Shane breathes. "Fucking dumbass, what the fuck?"  
  
"Yeah. So there was a huge fucking fight, and we aren't really speaking to each other. I mean. Ryan's not talking to me and Spence. We're trying." He squeezes his eyes shut.   
  
"Shit," Shane says again. "How are you holding up? How's Spence? That's fucking...wow."   
  
"Fucking wow just about sums it up," Brendon mutters. "I'm okay. I'm coping. I- I don't think I could do it without Spencer."   
  
He can practically hear Shane raising his eyebrows. "Yeah?"   
  
"We hooked up. We are hooking up. Dating? I don't even know," Brendon admits. His stomach in sinking. The beautiful day, the sun and the sand and the hasty backseat blowjob, had made everything seem distant. Now it's all too real.   
  
"Excuse me?"  
  
"First time was- was the day of the Blink announcement, we were in the pool, and then we've been- since the big fight, we-" he takes in a shuddery breath. "He's fucking amazing. Shane, okay, I've had, like, a lot of sex." Shane snorts. "Don't roll your eyes at me. The past couple days- best of my life, okay?"   
  
"Whoa."   
  
"Just, like- it's perfect, he's  _strong, god,_  just shoves me around, I can't-" He presses his palm to his forehead and tries to find the words. He realizes he's grinning and stops abruptly. "Shane, it's like the fucking scene in Buffy. With Spike. Where they're fucking as the house falls down around their ears, everything's just collapsing, and they don't even notice until the next morning, they're just so wrapped up in each other. It feels like that, okay? Things are going to shit, Ryan's a mess, and I don't care nearly as much as I know I should because Spencer's all I can think about."   
  
"Fuck," Shane says simply.   
  
"He's- he's all I can see, when he walks in the room," Brendon whispers, and he squeezes his eyes shut.   
  
"Your fucking band is falling apart and  _now_  you realize you're in love with him. Worst fucking timing of anyone I've ever met." Shane sounds exasperated. Brendon's heart pounds uncomfortably.   
  
"We're not falling apart," he says automatically. "And-" He wants to deny it but the words stick in his throat. There's a long pause. "Shit, Shane, I'm in love with him."   
  
"I did realize that, actually, yes," Shane says, dripping sarcasm.   
  
"How?" Brendon says plaintively. His heart is racing.   
  
"Apart from the fact that you've been making googly eyes at him for years?" Shane asks. "He's been head over heels for you for, like, ever. Besides, you have a voice."   
  
"I get a voice."   
  
"Your Spencer voice. All dreamy. You're like a thirteen-year-old girl. Don't deny it."   
  
"I-" Brendon rubs his knuckles into his forehead. "Yeah, no, I'm in love with him. I can't- fuck, Shane, what the fuck do I do?"   
  
"I don't know," Shane says softly. "He- if it was anyone else, I'd tell you to fix things with Ryan and go from there. But this- this might not be fixable, and I trust Spencer with you. You two- yeah. Your timing sucks, but it's been a long time coming."   
  
"I'm an idiot," Brendon half-laughs.   
  
"Good job, you're finally catching up to the rest of us. Okay, Bren, I have to run, there's a lighting crisis. But keep in touch, yeah?"   
  
"'Kay," Brendon says, and adds, "Thanks," just before he hangs up.   
  
He sighs, digs the heels of his hands into his eyes until he sees bursts of color. Someone knocks.   
  
"You ready?" Spencer calls. He opens the door tentatively and Brendon sits up straight. Spencer's hair is combed back and he's wearing a black button-down.   
  
"Hi," Brendon says stupidly. "Um, what?"   
  
"I'm taking you out," Spencer says. He sounds almost shy. Brendon can feel a grin spreading across his face. "Wining and dining, remember?" Spencer adds.   
  
"I'll just- I'll go shower quickly," Brendon stutters. Spencer nods and turns toward the living room, and Brendon takes the world's fastest shower, smiling like an idiot the entire time.   
  
He puts on a sweater and his nicest jeans, smoothing his hair back. Okay. Date. He's going on a motherfucking  _date._  He can barely even remember the last time he went on a date. Fuck. He grins at himself in the mirror and goes out to find Spencer.   
  
Spencer opens the passenger door for him and Brendon ducks his head, trying to hide his smile. "So where are we going?" he asks.   
  
"It's a surprise," Spencer grins, and starts the car.   
  
"We're going mini-golfing, aren't we?" Brendon teases. "Classy, Smith, classy. Or bowling. We're definitely going bowling."   
  
"A football game," Spencer says, straight-faced. "And then a strip club. Shut up, you'll see. And don't diss mini-golf."   
  
Brendon can't think of anything else to say, so he does shut up, but he can't stop smiling.   
  
Spencer opens the restaurant door for him and Brendon's jaw drops. It's small, candle-lit, with soft jazz coming through hidden speakers, undeniably romantic.   
  
"Nicer than bowling," he says, somewhat shakily, to Spencer, and Spencer just rolls his eyes and gives his name to the hostess.   
  
"So," Spencer smiles, after they've ordered drinks. "Um. What do people talk about on first dates?"   
  
And, yeah, it was pretty obvious, but just hearing the word, the confirmation, makes Brendon blush and duck his head again. "Dunno, haven't been on one in forever," he says, and fiddles with his napkin.   
  
"Tell me about yourself, Brendon Urie," Spencer says, and he looks like he's laughing at himself.   
  
"Well," Brendon starts. "I like the color turquoise. I like springtime and dogs and surfing, music, old movies. Boys, too. Boys with blue eyes." He smiles shyly. "How about you, Spencer Smith?"   
  
Spencer sips his wine, takes a deep breath before saying, "You. I like you." He looks up cautiously and Brendon beams at him, heart pounding, until Spencer smiles back.   
  
The waitress comes back and Brendon realizes he hasn't looked at his menu. "What can I get you tonight?" she asks, and Spencer glances quickly over to Brendon.   
  
"Want me to order for you?"   
  
Brendon smiles and shrugs. "Go for it."   
  
Spencer orders wild mushroom pasta for both of them and Brendon giggles a little as the waitress walks away. "What?" Spencer asks.   
  
"Remember that time in...I don't know, somewhere Midwest. And we were at that crappy Italian place and I made Jon re-enact that scene from Lady and the Tramp with me?"   
  
Spencer laughs. "And the waitress came up just as you were finishing, she looked completely horrified."   
  
"And Ryan-" Brendon stops abruptly. Ryan had hissed at them to stop, that someone might recognize them. Ryan always thought that gay was good for the stage, but not record sales, even if he never phrased it quite that way.   
  
"Yeah. Let's not. Not tonight," Spencer says, and he reaches across the small table toward where Brendon's hand is tapping at the stem of his wine glass.   
  
"Sorry, I keep fiddling," Brendon says. Spencer just shakes his head and laces their fingers together. Brendon's cheeks start to hurt from trying not to smile. There's a long pause while heat radiates up Brendon's arm. This is. This is  _nice._  He can feel Spencer's eyes on him, gauging his reaction maybe, but Brendon just ducks his head and tries not to be such a thirteen-year-old girl.   
  
"So. I don't know," Spencer says eventually. "What do you want to be when you grow up?"   
  
Brendon smiles. "Teacher. Music teacher. It was the only reason my parents let me do music, really."   
  
"You'd be a good teacher," Spencer says, and his gaze sends shivers down Brendon's neck.   
  
"I am a good teacher, you stood up on the board for half a second today," Brendon says proudly. Spencer rolls his eyes.   
  
"It was fun. I mean, watching you was fun, the part where I kept falling down wasn't so much," Spencer says wryly.   
  
"We'll just have to practice more," Brendon decides. Spencer's thumb is stroking over the skin between his index finger and thumb. It's fairly distracting, which is Brendon's only excuse for the stupid surfer-dude impression he does: "Be one with the wave, dude."   
  
"You'd be a stoner flower child in another life, wouldn't you?" Spencer chuckles. Their food arrives and, unfortunately, Spencer has to take his hand away.   
  
"Guess so. I mean. Yeah? Oh my god, this is incredible," Brendon sighs after his first bite. Spencer nods emphatically as he chews.   
  
"Mm. Anyway. No, yeah, it's perfect, you'd escape your Mormon upbringing and go to San Francisco and dance naked and have lots of sex. And, like, do drum circles, and smile at strangers."   
  
"I already do all that, except not in San Francisco," Brendon laughs. Spencer thinks about it a second.   
  
"Oh, yeah. Okay. Who would I be?"   
  
"Ninja," Brendon says promptly. "Or, like...no, I don't know. Mountain man. You've got the beard for it."   
  
Spencer raises one eyebrow. Brendon winks at him, cheesy as he can make it.   
  
It's breathtaking, how easy it is, to go from friends to... _more._  Stupid banter, laughter, it's all the same. The only difference is the hand resting over his on the table, the blush that periodically spreads over his cheeks when he realizes what this is, what they're doing, the jitters under his skin whenever Spencer looks at him.   
  
“You've got a-” Spencer says, over dessert, and he reaches across the table to wipe a drop of chocolate sauce from Brendon's lower lip. Brendon flicks his tongue over the spot Spencer just touched, and Spencer's eyes go dark.   
  
Spencer insists on paying. He opens Brendon's door for him when they reach the car, and holds his hand on the way home. Brendon watches his smile in the glow of headlights.   
  
“Home sweet home,” Brendon says reluctantly. He toes his shoes off inside the door.   
  
"Um. Go in your room for like five minutes, then come outside?" Spencer says, biting his lip. Brendon raises an eyebrow, but goes into his room obediently. If he jumps on his bed a few times and makes stupidly happy faces at the mirror, nobody has to know. He gives Spencer seven minutes; checks his hair, tugs at his shirt.   
  
His breath catches in his throat when he steps out onto the porch. “Spence,” he says, and Spencer turns around and smiles. He's dangling his feet in the pool, illuminated by candlelight, a few votives floating in the pool and more next to him, flickering next to a bottle of wine and two glasses. Spencer jerks his head wordlessly and Brendon walks down the stairs, rolls up the cuffs of his jeans before settling next to Spencer. Something's flipping almost painfully in his stomach, sharp and wonderful.  
  
“You sure know how to treat a girl,” Brendon whispers, and he takes the glass of wine Spencer hands him.   
  
“Yeah, well, wining and dining,” Spencer mutters, flushing pink. It doesn't make a whole lot of sense. Brendon doesn't call him on it.   
  
“I guess maybe it's weird that the best first date of my life was with someone I've known for...well. Most of my life,” Brendon muses.   
  
“Yeah?” Spencer asks. Brendon can see him beaming behind his wine glass.   
  
“Yeah.”   
  
“Nah, not weird,” Spencer says, after a pause. “We got to skip all the awkward getting-to-know you stuff. And it's not like you have to worry about, like...getting sauce on your shirt, or something. Not when I've seen you puke.”   
  
Brendon wrinkles his nose. “Can you just mentally erase all the gross, stupid stuff I've done over the years?”   
  
Spencer full-on laughs then. “Nah. Besides, why would I want to? It's...it's you.” He stares at his hands and bites his lip, and Brendon thinks about it for a second.   
  
“Yeah, I kinda want all of you, too,” he says softly, and Spencer's eyes meet his again, warm and relieved and open.   
  
Brendon rests his hand over Spencer's and stares at the water, the ripples spreading from their feet and then soft flicker of light from the candles. Spencer shifts so they're holding hands properly, his thumb making the familiar slow circles over Brendon's palm.   
  
"Who was the first guy you had a crush on?" Spencer asks, after a second or two of comfortable silence.   
  
Brendon chuckles. "This kid in...must've been fifth grade. I stared at him a little too long in the changing room one day and he threatened to punch me."   
  
"You have a great track record with that, huh?" Spencer says. Brendon takes a couple sips of his wine, blushing. He shrugs. "For real, though," Spencer persists.   
  
"Ryan," Brendon says softly. "When we were fooling around, I- yeah. He was the first boy I'd kissed, I thought that kind of meant...I don't know. I thought it meant more than it did. I got over it when he decided he wasn't bi, or whatever." He clears his throat. "How about you?"   
  
Spencer bites his lip and his thumb stills on Brendon's hand. "You," he near-whispers.   
  
"What about after me?" Brendon asks curiously. Spencer clears his throat nervously, sips his wine, shrugs.   
  
"That would be...you," he mutters.   
  
"No, I mean, who was the next guy you liked?" Brendon says, confused.   
  
Spencer looks at him suddenly, clear and sharp. "You, Bren. It's always been you."  
  
“Oh,” Brendon whispers. He takes a deep breath, exhales shakily. “Oh.” He can feel Spencer tense at his side, and he entwines their fingers again, squeezes tight. Spencer half-smiles at him, cautious. Brendon beams. “S'okay, I'm yours now,” he says simply, and he rests his head against Spencer's shoulder.   
  
“Yeah?” Spencer breathes, and he brings a hand up to pet lightly at Brendon's hair.   
  
“Yeah.”  
  
Brendon knows it's late. He's sleepy, bone-deep exhausted from surfing and wine, but he's not ready for the night to end. There's something pounding under his skin, deep and thrumming, and he's not sure whether he wants to dance and sing or just sit here and curl further into Spencer's arm and maybe kiss his neck. He just sighs, except it turns into a yawn and he can feel Spencer laughing.   
  
“I'm tired too, all that falling off the surfboard was hard work,” Spencer mumbles into his hair.   
  
“Not tired. Want to stay.”   
  
“I'm a gentleman, I have to have you home early. C'mon, I'll walk you, uh, home.” Spencer blows out the candles around them and leaves the ones in the pool, and then he's pulling at Brendon's arm.   
  
“Fine,” Brendon grumbles, and he slips one arm around Spencer's waist, grinning up at him. They walk together to Brendon's bedroom door.   
  
“I had a good time tonight,” Spencer says formally, with a little quirk of a smile.   
  
“I'll call you?” Brendon offers, and he grabs at Spencer's hand and tugs him closer. Spencer cups one hand around his jaw before leaning in, hesitant, and the kiss is gentle and chaste. “Such a gentleman,” Brendon whispers when they break apart. “You're sleeping here tonight, right?”   
  
Spencer chuckles. “Yeah, let me go put the wine glasses away.”   
  
Brendon slips out of his jeans and slides into bed, and he can't help shivering a little, too happy to be still. He grabs his phone and texts Shane quickly,  _just went on DATE w s :) :) :)_.   
  
If he sniffs, he can smell Spencer's shampoo in the pillow.   
  
“Hey,” Spencer says as he comes through the door. He hops ungracefully out of his jeans and spoons up next to Brendon, kissing softly at his jaw.   
  
“Ah, ah, ah, Spencer Smith, I do not put out on the first date,” Brendon says primly. Spencer's laugh rumbles against his side.   
  
“Fine by me,” Spencer says, and he slides his arm under Brendon's neck, so Brendon's resting against his shoulder. He traces idle patterns up Brendon's ribs.   
  
“All that time?” Brendon whispers, eyes closed.   
  
“All that time,” Spencer confirms.   
  
“And...Bob Bryar?”   
  
“He was- well. He was hot. And, y'know, hero worship.” Spencer sounds almost sheepish.   
  
“How did I never know?”  
  
“I never told anyone. Not Ryan. Never. I thought- well. I thought I'd marry Haley, have kids, get over it.”   
  
“Why didn't you tell me?” Brendon asks.   
  
“I didn't- I didn't think anything could ever come from it. I mean...what would've happened? You were never...it was William, and Audrey, and just...on and on, never me, and I met Haley and that was it.”   
  
Brendon remembers. “I always thought you were hot. Even in the lesbian days.” Spencer pokes him in the stomach.   
  
“Funny,” he grumbles, and then his voice goes soft again. “But...really.”   
  
“Yeah,” Brendon whispers. “Yeah, it wouldn't have- it couldn't have worked. I was...I wouldn't have been ready.”   
  
“Ready?”   
  
Brendon swallows hard. He doesn't want to say it.  _I wasn't ready to fall in love._  “For something serious. I wasn't- I don't think it would've ended well,” he says instead.   
  
“I've got pretty shitty timing, huh,” Spencer half-laughs.   
  
“I forgive you.”   
  
“I'm glad,” Spencer says dryly. He's stroking Brendon's hair again. Brendon yawns, nuzzles into Spencer's neck.   
  
“Sweet dreams,” he manages to whisper, and then he's asleep.   
  
  


. . .

  
  
  
They spend the day exploring Silver Lake, poking around vintage shops and a music store. Ryan's not home when they get back that night and they smoke up in the backyard, kissing lazily under the stars, and then shower together, Spencer shampooing Brendon's hair for him before sinking to his knees. Brendon thinks his life would be perfect if not for one obvious problem.   
  
“Wish it didn't have to be like this,” he mumbles into Spencer's chest.   
  
“We'll work it out,” Spencer yawns.   
  
  


. . .

  
  
  
He's drifting somewhere between awake and asleep when he hears it. "Ryan?" Brendon asks, and rubs his eyes against the light. He blinks. There's a girl in his hallway.   
  
"Oh, hey!" Ryan giggles as he turns around. His hand is on her waist. She looks impatient.   
  
"The fuck," Spencer says flatly from the door.   
  
"Um. We're busy. Goodnight," Ryan laughs, big and bright, and wraps his arm around the girl. She, at least, looks embarrassed now; Ryan just looks like a mess. His shirt is mostly hanging open and his cheeks are all-too-familiarly flushed.   
  
"Excuse me?"   
  
"We're busy," Ryan repeats, in a mockingly slow voice.   
  
"This is my house. If you're going to sleep around, do it somewhere else," Brendon snaps. Spencer's eyebrows go up, but fuck this, Brendon's had enough.   
  
He expects Ryan to get angry, but he just smiles wider, detaching himself from the girl and taking a step toward Brendon. "What's the matter, Bren, you jealous?" he asks silkily. His head is cocked, predatory.   
  
"She's not really my type," Brendon snaps. "Get out."   
  
Ryan's mouth twists. "I didn't mean  _her._ " He takes another step forward and pauses, trailing one long finger down his own bare chest. "What, d'you miss me?"   
  
"I'm just gonna go," Brendon distantly hears the girl say, but all he can focus on is Ryan, his huge pupils and manic smile, more of a grimace.   
  
"What the  _fuck,_ " he manages.   
  
"S'okay, I get it. I mean, I've said it already, you could do so much better." Ryan's voice is brittle, somehow, under the fierce laughter.   
  
"Ryan, stop-" Spencer chokes out.   
  
"No, see, that's the problem with you, Spence, you were always too clingy. So fucking needy," Ryan says airily, eyes still fixed on Brendon. "C'mon, Bren, admit it," he purrs, and he takes the final step to close the space between them. Brendon steps back without looking and ends up against the wall, and Ryan just keeps coming, crowding into his space, and Brendon can hear his quick breaths under the thud of his own heartbeat.   
  
"Stop," he whispers, but Ryan throws his head back and laughs, and his hands come up to grasp at Brendon's shoulders.   
  
"C'mon, I know he's just your pity fuck," Ryan croons, and Brendon  _shoves_  with all his might. Ryan stumbles backward in a windmill of too-long limbs, but all Brendon can hear is Spencer's strangled gasp.   
  
"You're not," Brendon says vehemently to his own feet. He can't bring himself to look Spencer in the eye.   
  
“Oh, please,” Ryan snarls. He dusts himself off fussily. “You'll see, Spence, you'll be just like the rest of them.”  
  
“He's  _not_ ,” Brendon whispers, voice choked.   
  
“I mean, I guess I get it, why you didn't want to tell me you guys were-” he flaps his hand at the two of them. “Ashamed. Spencer, too. You just didn't want to tell me you were having my sloppy seconds.”   
  
“Shut the fuck up,” Spencer says flatly.   
  
“Whatever, you two can have each other. It's not like I ever needed you. Either of you.” Ryan glares. Brendon thinks if you didn't know him, you wouldn't be able to hear the bitterness there. “I don't need anybody, okay? I don't. My parents, Keltie, you guys. I've always done just fine on my own.”   
  
“Ryan, you've never been-” Spencer says, pressing a hand to his forehead like he's trying to physically hold himself together. “You'll always have us. We'll always be here, you just never let us in.”   
  
“No!” Ryan laughs wildly. “I don't! I don't have you, and I don't want you, and... your music is stupid!”   
  
Brendon is reeling at the change in subject, the panic behind Ryan's words.   
  
“Fuck you,” he spits, and leans back against the wall. “All of a sudden you start hanging out with hipsters and now you think you're too good for us?”   
  
“No, fuck  _you,_  you guys are so fucking wrapped up in each other that you can't bother to focus on the music, you're so fucking immature, don't you see how hard we're worked to be who we are? And you guys don't care, you're wasting it. You want to write show tunes!” His voice cracks.   
  
“To be who we are?” Spencer asks softly. “I thought it was about making music we care about. We really aren't good enough for you, are we?”   
  
“I'm the one who thinks I'm too good?” Ryan looks unhinged, glassy-eyed from the drugs, too hard around the edges, face flushed and spit flying as he screams. “You two, with your fucking moral high horse, you just stare, I know, you're such fucking- So I cheated! I cheated, okay? And I can't remember to pay my bills, and I do drugs, fuck it, I go out and I party and I have fun! I have friends outside the band! I go to clubs and I act like an actual fucking rock star, fuck you.” His fists twitch helplessly at his sides. Brendon doesn't know what to say. He wants to put his hands on Ryan's shoulders and shake him, rough and merciless, until his head is on straight again. Spencer's just staring, mouth open.   
  
“We don't- Ryan, why would you think- There's more to life than partying!” Brendon stutters.   
  
“What, like sitting at home and eating Chinese?” Ryan bites out.   
  
“Yes!” Spencer says pleadingly. “It doesn't matter to us, okay, we're  _happy,_  we just want you to be happy too, we don't need models and drugs to-”  
  
“Oh, grow up,” Ryan scowls, lip curling. He looks paler now, drawn, mouth pinched. “Grow the fuck up, both of you.”   
  
“I'd rather be immature than be you,” Brendon hisses. He feels vicious.   
  
“I'm sorry my life is so fucking  _disgusting_  to you,” Ryan screams, and when he takes a step closer Brendon's afraid he's about to be hit.   
  
“It's not, Ryan, it's not that, we just-” Spencer says.  
  
“No,” Brendon interrupts. “No, you know what. Ryan, it's true. I hate your clothes. I hate the music you've been writing. I hate your friends. I hate your drugs and your fucking hair and I hate the way you treat us and the way you treated Keltie and the way you treat yourself, but you know what, I don't hate you. I never could hate you, no matter what you do that  _should_  make me hate you.”   
  
“I- don't- you can't-” Ryan stammers.   
  
“Where the fuck has maturity gotten you, Ryan?” Brendon spits, and he wants to lash out, wants to kick and punch and claw for every stinging word Ryan's thrown at them.   
  
“This is it, isn't it? I'm here, in L.A., living the fucking dream, and-” Ryan's eyes are wide.   
  
“I'd rather be immature and happy,” Brendon cuts across him. “I'd rather stay in and watch Disney movies with a real friend than go out and party and be miserable.”   
  
“You think I'm miserable?”   
  
“Yeah, Ryan, I think you're miserable,” Brendon says roughly.   
  
“Please, Ryan, just-” Spencer whispers.   
  
Something deflates. Ryan's staring, back and forth between the two of them, wild-eyed and confused.   
  
“I don't think I can do this any more,” he mumbles, low and raw. Brendon doesn't have to ask what he means. He leans heavily against the wall.   
  
“Whatever makes you happy, Ry,” Spencer says bitterly. He bites his lip, pleading wordlessly, but Ryan doesn't look at him. Spencer takes a shuddering breath and turns away, back into Brendon's room.   
  
“You think this makes me happy?” Ryan chokes. He finally looks up to meet Brendon's eyes. His face is stripped of the usual mask, ugly with fear and desperation. Brendon wants to step forward, apologize and try to hug Ryan and make empty promises, but the line has been drawn, the foundations have crumbled. He shrugs and turns away, shutting the door behind him.   
  
Spencer is curled on the bed, shoulders shaking silently. Brendon crawls in behind him, holds on tight, and they cry themselves to sleep together.   
  
  


. . .

  
  
  
It's a moment before he remembers why he wants to burrow back into his pillow and not come out for a long, long time. Brendon feels sick. He closes his eyes and fights it back.   
  
Spencer's still sleeping, breathing soft and even, tickling the back of Brendon's neck. He turns over and wriggles a little closer. Spencer looks so peaceful, lips pink and parted against pale skin. Brendon snakes his hand up between their bodies and brushes the pad of his thumb against Spencer's lower lip. He remembers the last time he did that, standing in the bathroom with Ryan retching behind him. It seems like a century ago.   
  
Spencer stirs against him, red-rimmed eyes fluttering open dazedly. He smiles, the same one from when they were sixteen, dazzling and open.   
  
"Morning," he says softly, and he leans forward and kisses Brendon. Brendon kisses him back with everything he's got.   
  
Spencer doesn't hesitate, opens up under Brendon's lips with a whine. Tension and fear are dissipating until all that's left is the urgency,  _need_ , setting Brendon's skin on fire.   
  
He gives a little involuntary mewl when Spencer rolls onto his back and pulls Brendon on top of him. He's hard so fast he's dizzy with it. He can't  _breathe, fuck,_  Spencer's lips are desperate and demanding on his, tongue dipping and sliding into Brendon's mouth, hot frantic chaos, hands already scrabbling at Brendon's shirt and lifting it over his head, separating them long enough that Brendon gets one look at Spencer's face, pink cheeks and sin-red lips and those  _eyes,_  wide and pleading, and Brendon can't help but moan before their lips crash together again. God, it's too fast, he wants to savor every slide of Spencer's hand up and down his back, but he can't stop, there's not a chance in hell he'll give this up even for a second.   
  
He's gasping into Spencer's mouth, pulling clumsily at his shirt, and once it's off he tongues at a nipple, scrapes down gently with his teeth, and  _oh._  Spencer bucks up underneath him with a strangled breath, cock hard against Brendon's thigh through his pajamas, and Brendon fucking  _whimpers,_  helplessly gone and so not ready for this to be over yet.  
  
"Spence- Spence, I-" he pants into the sweat-sheened curve of Spencer's neck, but he can't  _help_  it, he darts out his tongue to taste and Spencer shudders and Brendon grinds down again,  _fuck,_  he's about to come out of his skin and- "I need, Spence, please."   
  
Spencer stills under him, frozen, panting ragged and raw. "Yeah." Brendon's head spins.   
  
"Fuck me," he says, and nips at Spencer's collarbone, making little uncontrollable circles with his hips. "Please, Spence, I need you, fuck-" he's begging and Spencer's nodding but he can't bring himself to pull away. He fumbles with the waistband of Spencer's pants instead and they're both kicking, awkward and uncoordinated and rushed, till they're naked, Spencer spread out beneath him flushed and panting and gorgeous, pressed together skin-on-skin, hands roving and stroking, and it's everything all at once, too much, not nearly enough.   
  
"Bren," Spencer groans into his mouth, and Brendon can't help it, he reaches down and palms Spencer's cock once, groaning at the feel of him, heavy and leaking. He scrambles away, fingers shaking as he opens the drawer and finds what they need. He takes a second to appreciate when he turns back around. Spencer looks wrecked, eyes dark and mouth swollen, chest heaving, and Brendon feels... lucky. Above all, beyond the way his cock is throbbing and his skin is blazing, he feels lucky.   
  
He straddles Spencer's thighs and lubes up two fingers, arching forward a little to slide them inside himself. Spencer's whimpering, these high-pitched whining sounds, eyes raking over Brendon's exposed body, and Brendon does this to himself often enough but it's never like  _this._  He twists his hips, grinds down onto his own hand, and Spencer's groaning, "Brendon, fuck, hottest thing I've ever- I can't, please, fuck-"   
  
He doesn't bother with a third finger, just slides the condom down Spencer's cock and lines up. Their eyes lock just before Brendon begins to move.   
  
It's, god, it's beyond words. Spencer's arching back under him, mouth open in a long, stuttering moan, fingers clenching on Brendon's thighs. Brendon sinks down slowly, torturously, reveling in the drag, the burn, the stretch that sends shivering coils of heat through every inch of his body. He lets his head fall back, closing his eyes, and it's all he can feel.   
  
"Fuck, I'm not- I'm not gonna last long," Spencer chokes, eyes fixed on the quivering muscles of Brendon's stomach.   
  
"Me neither," Brendon laughs shakily. He rolls his hips, the barest hint of movement, and Spencer's fingers clench convulsively, and he's going to have bruises,  _fuck,_  he hopes he'll have bruises.   
  
"Faster, Bren, I can't- you feel- god, so good, please," Spencer moans, and he braces himself with a foot on the bed and thrusts up, short and sharp, and Brendon's lost in it, Spencer meeting him for every thrust, fast and frantic and dirty, and he rolls his hips down helplessly and can't feel anything but the sweet, hot burn. There are sparks exploding behind his eyelids and dancing up his spine, breathless and unseeing. This,  _this,_ must be where they got the expression "mindblowing." He's gone, so far gone, couldn't stop if he wanted to, and all it takes is one brush of Spencer's callused palm, not even a proper touch, and Brendon's coming harder than he ever has in his life, breathless and barely conscious and shaking, and all he can hear is Spencer's low, raw moan as his hips snap up one more time.   
  
It must be minutes before Brendon comes to, head full of a sort of buzzing white noise, forehead resting on Spencer's chest while one of Spencer's hands runs mindlessly over his back. He shudders as he pulls off, skin over-stimulated, and collects himself (tries to, at least) while Spencer deals with the condom. He closes his eyes and tries to breathe.   
  
"That was-" he hears Spencer say, and there's a hand at his forehead, smoothing hair away from sweaty skin. Brendon smiles and curls in closer, despite the heat. He manages to open his eyes and Spencer's staring at him like he's something  _precious._  
  
"I love you," he says, before he can stop himself.   
  
Spencer beams, brilliant and dazed, and plants a sweet, barely-there kiss on Brendon's lower lip. "I love you too," he whispers. Something inside Brendon bursts and unfurls, and he tilts his head back and lets Spencer kiss along his jaw, blissed-out and exhausted. "And I'm not just saying that because that was the best sex of my entire life," Spencer adds, and Brendon laughs and pulls him up for a real kiss.   
  
He doesn't want to think about the walls crashing down around them, the dust and smoke of everything they've built over the past years. They trade lazy kisses and Brendon doesn't consider what's next.   
  
He just hopes Spencer will still be there when the wreckage clears. 


End file.
